UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


(^i^'^UJ]^ 


0,  fc^^TJ  V-^l' 


THE    WASHER   OF   THE    FORD 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Pharais  :  A  Romance  of  the  Isles 
The  Mountain  Lovers  :  A  Romance 
The  Sin-Eater 

IN  PREPARATION: 

Green  Fire  -.  A  Romance 
Lyric  Rimes  and  Founsheen 


THE 

WASHER  OF   THE   FORD 

LEGENDARY    MORALITIES 

AND   BARBARIC  TALES 

BY   FIONA   MACLEOD 


NEW   YORK 
STONE    &    KIMBALL 

M  DCCC  XCVI 


CONTENTS. 


5354- 

VlQ.1 


>- 

3 


Prologue 

The  Washer  of  the  Ford 
St.  Bride  of  the  Isles  . 
The  Fisher  of  men  .  .  . 
The  Last  Supper  .  .  . 
The  Dark  Nameless  One 
The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

I.     The  Festival  of  the  Birds. 
11.     The   Sabbath   of   the   Fishes 
AND  the  Flies     .     .     .     .     . 

III.     The  Moon-Child 

The  Annir-Choille 

The  Shadow-Seers 

I.     The  Sight 

II.     The    Dark    Hour  of   Fergus 

III.  The  White  Fever      .     .     .     . 

IV.  The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand 

Seanachas     

The  Song  of  the  Sword 

The  Flight  of  the  Culdees     .     .     . 

MiRCATH     

The    Laughter     of    Scathach    the 

Queen     .....     

Ula  and  Urla 


3 

25 

51 

97 

117 

135 
149 

151 

161 
170 
183 
237 
239 
244 
254 
260 
267 
271 
289 
301 

309 
321 


4CS433 


"  Here  are  told  the  stories  of  these  pictures  of  the 
imagination,  of  magic  and  romance.  Yet  they  were 
gravely  chosen  withal,  and  for  reasons  manifold.  .  .  . 
What  if  they  be  but  dreams  .''  *  We  are  such  stuff 
as  dreams  are  made  of.*  What  if  they  be  but  magic 
and  romance?  These  things  are  not  ancient  and 
dead,  but  modern  and  increasing.  For  wherever  a 
man  learns  power  over  Nature,  there  is  Magic; 
wherever  he  carries  out  an  ideal  into  Life  there  is 
Romance." 

"  Patrick  Geddes  : 

"  The  Interpreter.^* 


PROLOGUE 


/  find,  under  the  boughs  of  love  and  hate^ 
Etei'nal  Beauty  wandering  on  her  way. 

The  Rose  upon  the  Rood  of  Time. 


PROLOGUE 

(to  kathia) 

To  you,  in  your  far-away  home  in  Prov- 
ence, I  send  these  tales  out  of  the 
remote  North  you  love  so  well,  and  so  well 
understand.  The  same  blood  is  in  our  veins, 
a  deep  current  somewhere  beneath  the  tide 
that  sustains  us.  We  have  meeting-places 
that  none  knows  of;  we  understand  what  few 
can  understand ;  and  we  share  in  common  a 
strange  and  inexplicable  heritage.  It  is  be- 
cause you,  who  are  called  Kathia  of  the  Sun- 
way,  are  also  Kathia  nan  Ciar,  Kathia  of  the 
Shadow,  it  is  because  you  are  what  you  are 
that  I  inscribe  this  book  to  you.  In  it  you 
will  find  much  that  is  familiar  to  you,  though 
you  may  never  have  read  or  heard  anything 
of  the  kind ;  for  there  is  a  reality,  beneath 
the  unfamiliar  accident,  which  may  be  recog- 
nised in  a  moment  as  native  to  the  secret 


Prologue 

life  that  lives  behind  the  brain  and  the  wise 
nerves  with  their  dim  ancestral  knowledge. 

The  greater  portion  of  this  book  deals  with 
the  remote  life  of  a  remote  past.  "  The 
Shadow-Seers,"  however,  though  of  to-day, 
may  equally  be  of  yesterday  or  to-morrow ; 
and  as  for  "The  Last  Supper"  or  "The 
Fisher  of  Men,"  they  are  of  no  time  or  date, 
for  they  are  founded  upon  elemental  facts 
which  are  modified  but  not  transformed  by 
the  changing  years. 

It  may  be  the  last  of  its  kind  I  shall  write 
—  at  any  rate,  for  a  time.  I  would  like  it 
to  be  associated  with  you,  to  whom  not  only 
the  mystery  but  the  pagan  sentiment  and  the 
old  barbaric  emotion  are  so  near.  With  the 
second  sight  of  the  imagination  we  can  often 
see  more  clearly  in  the  perspectives  of  the 
past  than  in  the  maze  of  the  present;  and 
most  clearly  when  we  recognise  that,  below 
the  accidents  of  time  and  circumstance,  the 
present  is  but  a  reflection  of  that  past  to 
which  we  belong  —  belong,  as  intimately  and 
inalienably,  as  to  the  hour  wherein  happily 
content  we  swing  to  those  anchors  which  we 
do  not  see  are  linked  to  us  by  ropes  of  sand. 
4 


Prologue 

If  I  am  eager  to  have  my  say  on  other 
aspects  of  our  Celtic  Ufe  in  the  remoter  West 
Highlands  and  in  the  Isles ;  now  with  the 
idyllic,  now  with  the  tragic,  now  with  the 
grotesque,  the  humorous,  the  pathetic,  with 
all  the  medley  cast  from  the  looms  of  Life  — 
all  that 

"...  from  the  looms  of  Life  are  spun, 
Warp  of  shadow  and  woof  of  sun  —  " 

and  if,  too,  I  long  to  express  anew  something 
of  that  wonderful  historic  romance  in  which 
we  of  our  race  and  country  are  so  rich,  I  am 
not  likely  to  forget  those  earlier  dreams 
which  are  no  whit  less  realities  —  realities  of 
the  present  seen  through  an  inverted  glass  — 
which  have  been,  and  are,  so  full  of  inspira- 
tion and  of  a  strange  and  terrible  beauty. 

But  one  to  whom  life  appeals  by  a  myriad 
avenues,  all  alluring  and  full  of  wonder  and 
mystery,  cannot  always  abide  where  the  heart 
longs  most  to  be.  It  is  well  to  remember 
that  there  are  shadowy  waters  even  in  the 
cities,  and  that  the  Fount  of  Youth  is  dis- 
coverable in  the  dreariest  towns  as  well  as  in 
Hy  Brasil :  a  truth  apt  to  be  forgotten  by 
those  of  us  who  dwell  with  ever-wondering 

5 


Prologue 

delight  in  that  land  of  lost  romance  which 
had  its  own  day,  as  this  epoch  of  a  still 
stranger,  if  a  less  obvious,  romance  has  its 
own  passing  hour. 

The  titular  piece  —  with  its  strange  name 
that  will  not  be  unfamiliar  to  you  who  know 
our  ancient  Celtic  literature,  or  may  bear 
in  mind  the  striking  use  made  of  it  and 
its  vague  cognate  legend,  by  Ferguson,  in 
his  Irish  epic,  Congal — gives  the  keynote 
not  only  of  this  book  but  of  what  has  for 
hundreds  of  years,  and  to  some  extent  still 
is,  the  characteristic  of  the  purely  Celtic 
mind  in  the  Highlands  and  the  Isles.  This 
characteristic  is  a  strange  complexity  of 
paganism  and  Christianity,  or  rather  an  ap- 
parent complexity  arising  from  the  grafting 
of  Christianity  upon  paganism.  Columba, 
St.  Patrick,  St.  Ronan,  Kentigern,  all  these 
miHtant  Christian  saints  were  merely  trans- 
formed pagans.  Even  in  the  famous  dia- 
logue between  St.  Patrick  and  Oisin,  which 
is  the  folk-telling  of  the  passing  of  the  old 
before  the  new,  the  thrill  of  a  pagan  sympa- 
thy on  the  part  of  the  uncompromising  saint 
is  unmistakable.  To  this  day,  there  are 
6 


Prologue 

Christian  rites  and  superstitions  which  are 
merely  a  gloss  upon  a  surviving  antique 
paganism.  I  have  known  an  old  woman,  in 
no  wise  different  from  her  neighbours,  who 
on  the  day  of  Beltane  sacrificed  a  hen : 
though  for  her  propitiatory  rite  she  had  no 
warrant  save  that  of  vague  traditionary  lore, 
the  lore  of  the  ieinntean,  of  the  hearth-side 
—  where,  in  truth,  are  best  to  be  heard  the 
last  echoes  of  the  dim  mythologic  faith  of  our 
ancestors.  What  is  the  familiar  "clachan," 
now  meaning  a  hamlet  with  a  kirk,  but  an 
echo  of  the  Stones,  the  circles  of  the  druids 
or  of  a  more  ancient  worship  still,  that  per- 
haps of  the  mysterious  Anait,  whose  sole 
record  is  a  clach  on  a  lonely  moor,  of  which 
from  time  immemorial  the  people  have 
spoken  as  the  "  Teampull  na'n  Anait  "  ?  A 
relative  of  mine  saw,  in  South  Uist,  less  than 
twenty-five  years  ago,  what  may  have  been 
the  last  sun-sacrifice  in  Scotland,  when  an 
old  Gael  secretly  and  furtively  slew  a  lamb 
on  the  summit  of  a  conical  grassy  knoll  at 
sunrise.  Those  who  have  the  Gaelic  have 
their  ears  filled  with  rumours  of  a  day  that 
is  gone.  When  an  evicted  crofter  laments, 
7 


Prologue 

O  mo  chreach^  mo  chreach  !  ^  or  some  poor 
soul  on  a  bed  of  pain  cries,  O  mo  chradshlat^ 
he  who  knows  the  past  recognises  in  the  one 
the  mournful  refrain  of  the  time  when  the 
sea-pirates  or  the  hill-robbers  pillaged  and 
devasted  quiet  homesteads,  and,  in  the  other, 
not  the  moan  of  suffering  only,  but  the  cry 
of  torment  from  the  victim  racked  on  the 
cradhshlat^  a  bitter  ignominious  torture  used 
by  the  ancient  Gaels.  When,  in  good  fel- 
lowship, one  man  says  to  another,  Tha,  a 
laochain  (yes,  my  dear  fellow),  he  recalls 
Fionn  and  the  chivalry  of  eld,  for  laochan  is 
merely  a  contraction  for  laoch-Fhinn,  mean- 
ing a  companion  in  war,  a  hero,  literally 
Fionn's  right-hand  man  in  battle.  To  this 
day,  women,  accompanying  a  marching  regi- 
ment, are  sometimes  heard  to  say  in  the 
Gaelic,  '^  We  are  going  with  the  dear  souls 
to  the  wars"  —  literally  an  echo  of  the 
Ossianic  Siubhlaidh  sinn  le'n  anam  do* ft 
araich,  "We  shall  accompany  their  souls  to  the 
battle-field."    A  thousand  instances  could  be 

1  Oh,  alas,  alas  !     (Literally,  Oh,  my  undoing,  or 
Oh,  my  utter  ruin.) 

2  Alas  my  torment ! 


Prologue 

adduced.  The  language  is  a  herring-net, 
through  which  the  unchanging  sea  filtrates, 
even  though  the  net  be  clogged  with  the  fish 
of  the  hour.  Nor  is  it  the  pagan  atmosphere 
only  that  survives  :  often  we  breathe  the  air 
of  that  early  day  when  the  mind  of  man  was 
attuned  to  a  beautiful  piety  that  was  wrought 
into  nature  itself.  Of  the  several  words  for 
the  dawn,  there  is  a  beautiful  one,  Uinnea- 
gachadh.  We  have  it  in  the  phrase  'nuair 
a  bha  an  latha  ag  ui7ineagachadh,  "  when  the 
day  began  to  dawn."  Now  this  word  is  simply 
an  extension  of  Uinneag^  a  window  :  and  the 
application  of  the  image  dates  far  back  to 
the  days  of  St.  Columba,  when  some  devout 
and  poetic  soul  spoke  of  the  uinneagan 
Neitnhy  the  windows  of  Heaven. 

Sometimes,  among  the  innumerable  ''  legen- 
dary moralities  "  which  exist  fragmentarily  in 
the  West  Highlands  and  in  the  Isles,  there  is 
a  coherent  narrative  basis  —  as,  for  example, 
in  the  Irish  and  Highland  folk-lore  about  St. 
Bride,  or  Bridget,  "  Muime  Chriosd."  Some- 
times there  is  simply  a  phrase  survived  out  of 
antiquity.  I  doubt  if  any  now  living,  either 
in  the  Hebrides  or  in  Ireland,  has  heard  any 
9 


Prologue 


to' 


legend  of  the  ''  Washer  of  the  Ford."  The 
name  survives,  with  its  atmosphere  of  a 
remote  past,  its  dim  ancestral  memory  of  a 
shadowy  figure  of  awe  haunting  a  shadowy 
stream  in  a  shadowy  land.  Samuel  Ferguson, 
in  Congal,  has  done  little  more  than  limn  an 
obscure  shadow  of  that  shadow  :  yet  it  haunts 
the  imagination.  In  the  passage  of  paganism, 
these  old  myths  were  too  deep-rooted  in  the 
Celtic  mind  to  vanish  at  the  bidding  of  the 
Cross  :  thus  came  about  that  strange  grafting 
of  the  symbolic  imagery  of  the  devout  Culdee, 
of  the  visionary  Mariolater,  upon  the  surviv- 
ing Druidic  and  prehistoric  imagination.  In 
a  word,  the  Washer  of  the  Ford  might  well 
have  appeared,  to  a  single  generation,  now  as 
a  terrible  and  sombre  pagan  goddess  of  death, 
now  as  a  symbolic  figure  in  the  new  faith, 
foreshadowing  spiritual  salvation  and  the 
mystery  of  resurrection. 

If  in  a  composition  such  as  "  The  Annir- 
Choille,"  there  is  the  expression  of  revolt  — 
not  ancient  only,  nor  of  the  hour,  but  eternal, 
for  the  revolt  is  of  the  sovereign  nature  within 
us  whereon  all  else  is  an  accidental  super- 
structure —  against    the    Christian    ethic    of 

lO 


Prologue 

renunciation,  with  an  echo  of  our  deep  prime- 
val longing  for  earth-kinship  with  every  life  in 
nature  :  if  here  there  is  the  breath  of  a  day 
that  may  not  come  again,  there  is  little  or 
nothing  of  the  past,  save  what  is  merely  acci- 
dental, in  "The  Fisher  of  Men"  or  "The 
Last  Supper."  I  like  to  think  that  these 
eachdaheachd  Spioi'adail,  these  spiritual 
chronicles,  might  as  well,  in  substance, 
have  been  told  a  thousand  years  ago  or  be 
written  a  thousand  years  hence.  That  Fisher 
still  haunts  the  invisible  shadowy  stream  of 
human  tears  :  those  mystic  Spinners  still  ply 
their  triple  shuttles,  and  the  Fair  Weaver  of 
Hope,  now  as  of  yore  and  for  ever,  sends  his 
rainbows  adrift  across  the  hearts  and  through 
the  minds  of  men.  What  does  it  matter, 
again,  that  the  Three  Marvels  of  Hy  are  set 
against  the  background  of  the  lona  of  St. 
Columba?  St.  Francis  blessed  the  birds  of 
Assisi,  and  San  Antonio  had  a  heart  as  tender 
for  all  winged  and  gentle  creatures :  and 
there  are  innumerable  quiet  gardens  of  peace 
in  the  world  even  now  where  the  kindred  of 
San  Antonio  and  St.  Francis  and  St.  Columba 
are  kith  to  our  fellow-beings,  knowing  them 


Prologue 

akin  one  and  all  to  the  seals  whom  St.  Molios 
blessed  at  the  end  of  his  days,  and  in  his  new 
humbleness  hailed  as  likewise  of  the  company 
of  the  Sons  of  God. 

But  of  this  I  am  sure.  If  there  is  spiritual 
truth  in  the  vision  of  the  Blind  Harper  who 
saw  the  Washer  of  the  Ford,  or  in  that  of 
Molios  who  hailed  the  seals  as  brethren,  or 
in  that  of  Colum  who  blessed  the  birds  and 
the  fish  of  the  sea  and  even  the  vagrant 
flies  of  the  air,  and  saw  the  Moon-Child, 
and  in  that  seeing  learned  the  last  mystery 
of  the  life  of  the  soul,  if  in  these,  as  in  the 
"Fisher  of  Men"  and  "The  Last  Supper," 
I  have  given  faint  utterance  to  the  heart- 
knowledge  we  all  have,  I  would  not  have 
you  or  any  think  that  the  pagan  way  is  there- 
fore to  me  as  the  way  of  darkness.  The 
lost  monk  who  loved  the  Annir-Choille  was 
doubtless  not  the  less  able  to  see  the 
Uinneagan  Neimh  because  he  was  under 
ban  of  Colum  and  all  his  kin :  and  there 
are  those  of  us  who  would  rather  be  with 
Cathal  of  the  Woods,  and  be  drunken  with 
green  fire,  than  gain  the  paradise  of  the 
holy    Molios    who    banned    him,  if  in  that 

12 


Prologue 

gain  were  involved  the  forfeiture  of  the 
sunny  green  world,  the  joy  of  life,  and  the 
earth-sweet  ancient  song  of  the  blood  that 
is  in  the  veins  of  youth. 

These  tales,  let  me  add,  are  not  legend- 
ary "mysteries"  but  legendary  "moralities." 
They  are  reflections  from  the  mirror  that  is 
often  obscured  but  is  never  dimmed.  There 
is  no  mystery  in  them,  or  anywhere  :  except 
the  eternal  mystery  of  beauty. 

Of  the  Seanachas,  the  short  barbaric  tales, 
I  will  say  nothing  to  you,  whose  favourite 
echo  from  Shelley  is  that  thrilling  line  "  the 
tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror." 

You  in  your  far  Provence,  amid  the  austere 
hills  that  guard  an  ancient  land  of  olive  and 
vine,  a  land  illumined  by  the  blue  flowing 
light  of  the  Rhone,  and  girt  by  desert  places 
where  sun  and  wind  inhabit,  and  scarce  any 
other  —  you  there  and  I  here  have  this  in 
common.  Everywhere  we  see  the  life  of 
man  in  subservient  union  with  the  life  of 
Nature ;  never,  in  a  word,  as  a  sun  beset  by 
tributary  stars,  but  as  one  planet  among  the 
innumerous  concourse  of  the  sky,  nurtured, 
it  may  be,  by  light  from  other  luminaries 
13 


Prologue 

and  other  spheres  than  we  know  of.  That 
we  are  intimately  at  one  with  Nature  is  a 
cosmic  truth  we  are  all  slowly  approaching. 
It  is  not  only  the  dog,  it  is  not  only  the  wild 
beast  and  the  wood-dove,  that  are  our  close 
kindred,  but  the  green  tree  and  the  green 
grass,  the  blue  wave  and  the  flowing  wind, 
the  flower  of  a  day  and  the  granite  peak  of 
an  3eon.  And  I  for  one  would  rather  have 
the  wind  for  comrade,  and  the  white  stars 
and  green  leaves  as  my  kith  and  kin,  than 
many  a  human  companion,  whose  chief  claim 
is  the  red  blood  that  diifers  little  from  the 
sap  in  the  grass  or  in  the  pines,  and  whose 
"  deathless  soul  "  is,  mayhap,  no  more  than  a 
fugitive  light  blown  idly  for  an  hour  betwixt 
dawn  and  dark.  We  are  woven  in  one  loom, 
and  the  Weaver  thrids  our  being  with  the 
sweet  influences,  not  only  of  the  Pleiades, 
but  of  the  living  world  of  which  each  is 
no  more  than  a  multi-coloured  thread :  as, 
in  turn,  He  thrids  the  wandering  wind 
with  the  inarticulate  cry,  the  yearning,  the 
passion,  the  pain,  of  that  bitter  clan,  the 
Human. 

Truly,  we  are  all  one.     It  is  a  common 
14 


Prologue 

tongue  we  speak,  though  the  wave  has  its 
own  whisper,  and  the  wind  its  own  sigh,  and 
the  Up  of  the  man  its  word,  and  the  heart  of 
woman  its  silence. 

Long,  long  ago  a  desert  king,  old  and 
blind,  but  dowered  with  ancestral  wisdom  be- 
yond all  men  that  have  lived,  heard  that  the 
Son  of  God  was  born  among  men.  He  rose 
from  his  place,  and  on  the  eve  of  the  third 
day  he  came  to  where  Jesus  sat  among  the 
gifts  brought  by  the  wise  men  of  the  East. 
The  little  lad  sat  in  Mary's  lap,  beneath  a 
tree  filled  with  quiet  light;  and  while  the 
folk  of  Bethlehem  came  and  went  He  was 
only  a  child  as  other  children  are.  But 
when  the  desert  king  drew  near,  the  child's 
eyes  deepened  with  knowledge. 

"What  is  it,  my  little  son?"  said  Mary 
the  Virgin. 

"  Sure,  Mother  dear,"  said  Jesus,  who  had 
never  yet  spoken  a  word,  ^'  it  is  Deep  Knowl- 
edge that  is  coming  to  me." 

"And  what  will  that  be,  O  my  Wonder 
and  Glory?" 

"That  which  will  come  in  at  the  door  be- 
fore you  speak  to  me  again." 
15 


Prologue 

Even  as  the  child  spoke,  an  old  blind 
man  entered,  and  bowed  his  head. 

"  Come  near,  O  tired  old  man,"  said  Mary 
that  had  borne  a  son  to  Joseph,  but  whose 
womb  knew  him  not. 

With  that  the  tears  fell  into  the  old  man's 
beard.  "  Sorrow  of  Sorrows,"  he  said,  "  but 
that  will  be  the  voice  of  the  Queen  of 
Heaven  !  " 

But  Jesus  said  to  his  mother :  "  Take  up 
the  tears,  and  throw  them  into  the  dark 
night."  And  Mary  did  so  :  and  lo  !  upon 
the  wilderness,  where  no  light  was,  and  on 
the  dark  wave,  where  seamen  toiled  without 
hope,  clusters  of  shining  stars  rayed  down- 
ward in  a  white  peace. 

Thereupon  the  old  king  of  the  desert  said  : 

"  Heal  me,  O  King  of  the  Elements." 

And  Jesus  healed  him.  His  sight  was 
upon  him  again,  and  his  gray  ancientness 
was  green  youth  once  more. 

'♦  I  have  come  with  Deep  Knowledge,"  he 
said. 

"Ay,  sure,  I  am  for  knowing  that,"  said 
the  King  of  the  Elements,  that  was  a  little 
child. 

16 


Prologue 

"Well,  if  you  will  be  knowing  that,  you 
can  tell  me  who  is  at  my  right  side  ?  " 

"It  is  my  elder  brother  the  Wind." 

"And  what  colour  will  the  Wind  be?  " 

"  Now  blue  as  Hope,  now  green  as  Com- 
passion." 

"  And  who  is  on  my  left?  " 

"The  Shadow  of  Life." 

"  And  what  colour  will  the  Shadow  be  ?  " 

"  That  which  is  woven  out  of  the  bowels 
of  the  earth  and  out  of  the  belly  of  the 
sea." 

"Truly,  thou  art  the  King  of  the  Ele- 
ments. I  am  bringing  you  a  great  gift,  I 
am  :  I  have  come  with  Deep  Knowledge." 

And  with  that  the  old  blind  man,  whose 
eyes  were  now  as  stars,  and  whose  youth 
was  a  green  garland  about  him,  chanted  nine 
runes. 

The  first  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Four 
Winds. 

The  second  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the 
Deep  Seas. 

The  third  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Lochs 
and  Rivers  and  the  Rains  and  the  Dews  and 
the  many  waters. 

2  17 


Prologue 

The  fourth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the 
Green  Trees  and  of  all  things  that  grow. 

The  fifth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  Man  and 
Bird  and  Beast,  and  of  everything  that  lives 
and  moves,  in  the  air,  on  the  earth,  and  in 
the  sea :  all  that  is  seen  of  man,  and  all  that 
is  unseen  of  man. 

The  sixth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  Birth, 
from  the  spawn  on  the  wave  to  the  Passion 
of  Woman. 

The  seventh  rune  was  the  Rune  of  Death, 
from  the  quenching  of  a  gnat  to  the  fading 
of  the  stars. 

The  eighth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Soul 
that  dieth  not,  and  the  Spirit  that  is. 

The  ninth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Mud 
and  the  Dross  and  the  Slime  of  Evil  —  that 
is  the  Garden  of  God,  wherein  He  walks 
with  sunlight  streaming  from  the  palms  of 
his  hands  and  with  stars  springing  beneath 
his  feet. 

Then  when  he  had  done,  the  old  man 
said :  "  I  have  brought  you  Deep  Knowl- 
edge."    But  at  that  Jesus  the  Child  said  : 

"  All  this  I  heard  on  my  way  hither." 

The  old  desert  king  bowed  his  head. 
i8 


Prologue 

Then  he  took  a  blade  of  grass,  and  played 
upon  it.  It  was  a  wild,  strange  air  that  he 
played. 

"  losa  mac  Dh^,  tell  the  woman  what  song 
that  is,"  cried  the  desert  king. 

"  It  is  the  secret  speech  of  the  Wind  that 
is  my  Brother,"  cried  the  child,  clapping  his 
hands  for  joy. 

*' And  what  will  this  be?"  and  with  that 
the  old  man  took  a  green  leaf,  and  played  a 
lovely  whispering  song. 

"  It  is  the  secret  speech  of  the  leaves," 
cried  Jesus  the  little  lad,  laughing  low. 

And  thereafter  the  desert  king  played 
upon  a  handful  of  dust,  and  upon  a  drop  of 
water,  and  upon  a  flame  of  fire ;  and  the 
Child  laughed  for  the  knowing  and  the  joy. 
Then  he  gave  the  secret  speech  of  the  sing- 
ing bird,  and  the  barking  fox,  and  the  howl- 
ing wolf,  ,and  the  bleating  sheep  :  of  all  and 
every  created  kind. 

"  O  King  of  the  Elements,"  he  said  then, 
"  for  sure  you  knew  much ;  but  now  I  have 
made  you  to  know  the  secret  things  of  the 
green  Earth  that  is  Mother  of  you  and  of 
Mary  too." 

19 


Prologue 

But  while  Jesus  pondered  that  one  mys- 
tery, the  old  man  was  gone  :  and  when  he 
got  to  his  people,  they  put  him  alive  into  a 
hollow  of  the  earth  and  covered  him  up, 
because  of  his  shining  eyes,  and  the  green 
youth  that  was  about  him  as  a  garland. 

And  when  Christ  was  nailed  upon  the 
Cross,  Deep  Knowledge  went  back  into  the 
green  world,  and  passed  into  the  grass  and 
the  sap  in  trees,  and  the  flowing  wind,  and 
the  dust  that  swirls  and  is  gone. 


All  this  is  of  the  wisdom  of  the  long  ago, 
and  you  and  I  are  of  those  who  know  how 
ancient  it  is,  how  remoter  far  than  when 
Mary,  at  the  bidding  of  her  little  son,  threw 
up  into  the  firmament  the  tears  of  an  old 
man. 

It  is  old,  old  — 

*'  Thousands  of  years,  thousands  of  years. 
If  all  were  told." 

Is  it  wholly  unwise,  wholly  the   fantasy  of  a 
dreamer,  to  insist,  in  this  late  day,  when  the 
dust  behind  and  the  mist  before  hide  from 
20 


Prologue 

us  the  Beauty  of  the  World,  that  we  can 
regain  our  birthright  only  by  leaving  our 
cloud-palaces  of  the  brain,  and  becoming 
consciously  at  one  with  the  cosmic  life  of 
which,  merely  as  men,  we  are  no  more  than 
a  perpetual  phosphorescence  ? 


21 


THE   WASHER   OF   THE   FORD 


23 


THE   WASHER   OF  THE   FORD 

WHEN  Torcall  the  Harper  heard  of  the 
death  of  his  friend,  Aodh-of-the- 
Songs,  he  made  a  vow  to  mourn  for  him  for 
three  seasons  —  a  green  time,  an  apple  time, 
and  a  snow  time. 

There  was  sorrow  upon  him  because  of 
that  death.  True,  Aodh  was  not  of  his  kin- 
dred, but  the  singer  had  saved  the  harper's 
life  when  his  friend  was  fallen  in  the  Field  of 
Spears. 

Torcall  was  of  the  people  of  the  north  — 
of  the  men  of  Lochlin.  His  song  was  of  the 
fjords,  and  of  strange  gods,  of  the  sword 
and  the  war-galley,  of  the  red  blood  and  the 
whjtp  hr^st,  of  Odin  and  Thor  and  Freya, 
of  Balder  and  the  Dream- God  that  sits  in  the 
rainbow,  of  the  starry  North,  of  the  flames  of 
pale  blue  and  flushing  rose  that  play  around 
the  Pole,  of  sudden  death  in  battle,  and  of 
Valhalla. 

25 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Aodh  was  of  the  south  isles,  where  these 
shake  under  the  thunder  of  the  western  seas. 
His  clan  was  of  the  isle  that  is  now  called 
Barra,  and  was  then  londfi ;  but  his  mother 
was  a  woman  out  of  a  royal  rath  in  Banba, 
as  men  of  old  called  Eir^.  She  was  so  fair 
that  a  man  died  of  his  desire  of  her.  He 
was  named  Ulad,  and  was  a  prince.  "  The 
Melancholy  of  Ulad  "  was  long  sung  in  his 
land  after  his  end  in  the  dark  swamp,  where 
he  heard  a  singing,  and  went  laughing  glad 
to  his  death.  Another  man  was  made  a 
prince  because  of  her.  This  was  Aodh  the 
Harper,  out  of  the  Hebrid  Isles.  He  won 
the  heart  out  of  her,  and  it  was  his  from  the 
day  she  heard  his  music  and  felt  his  eyes 
flame  upon  her.  Before  the  child  was  born, 
she  said,  "  He  shall  be  the  son  of  love.  He 
shall  be  called  Aodh.  He  shall  be  called 
Aodh-of-the-Songs."     And  so  it  was. 

Sweet  were  his  songs.  He  loved,  and  he 
sang,  and  he  died. 

And  when  Torcall  that  was  his  friend  knew 
this  sorrow,  he  arose  and  made  his  vow,  and 
went  out  for  evermore  from  the  place  where 
he  was. 

36 


The  Washer  of  the   Ford 

Since  the  hour  of  the  Field  of  Spears  he 
had  been  blind.  Torcall  Dall  he  was  upon 
men's  lips  thereafter.  His  harp  had  a  moon- 
shine wind  upon  it  from  that  day,  it  was  said  : 
a  beautiful  strange  harping  when  he  went 
down  through  the  glen,  or  out  upon  the 
sandy  machar  by  the  shore,  and  played  what 
the  wind  sang,  and  the  grass  whispered,  and 
the  tree  murmured,  and  the  sea  muttered  or 
cried  hollowly  in  the  dark. 

Because  there  was  no  sight  to  his  eyes, 
men  said  he  saw  and  he  heard.  What  was 
it  he  heard  and  he  saw  that  they  saw  not 
and  heard  not?  It  was  in  the  voice  that 
was  in  the  strings  of  his  harp,  so  the  rumour 
ran. 

When  he  rose  and  went  away  from  his 
place,  the  Maormor  asked  him  if  he  went 
north,  as  the  blood  sang;  or  south,  as  the 
heart  cried ;  or  west,  as  the  dead  go ;  or 
east,  as  the  light  comes. 

"  I  go  east,"  answered  Torcall  Dall. 

"  And  why  so.  Blind  Harper?  " 

*'  For  there  is  darkness  always  upon  me, 
and  I  go  where  the  light  comes." 

On  that  night  of  the  nights,  a  fair  wind 
27 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

blowing  out  of  the  west,  Torcall  the  Harper 
set  forth  in  a  galley.  It  splashed  in  the 
moonshine  as  it  was  rowed  swiftly  by  nine 
men. 

"  Sing  us  a  song,  O  Torcall  Dall !  "  they 
cried. 

"Sing  us  a  song,  Torcall  of  Lochlin,"  said 
the  man  who  steered.  He  and  all  his  com- 
pany were  of  the  Gael :  the  Harper  only  was 
of  the  Northmen. 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  he  asked.  "Shall 
it  be  of  war  that  you  love,  or  of  women  that 
twine  you  like  silk  o'  the  kine ;  or  shall  it  be 
of  death  that  is  your  meed ;  or  of  your  dread, 
the  Spears  of  the  North?  " 

A  low  sullen  growl  went  from  beard  to 
beard. 

"We  are  nndei geas,  Blind  Harper,"  said 
the  steersman,  with  downcast  eyes  because  of 
his  flaming  wrath;  "we  are  under  bond 
to  take  you  safe  to  the  mainland,  but  we 
have  sworn  no  vow  to  sit  still  under  the  lash 
of  your  tongue.  'T  was  a  wind-fleet  arrow 
that  sliced  the  sight  out  of  your  eyes  :  have 
a  care  lest  a  sudden  sword-wind  sweep  the 
breath  out  of  your  body." 
28 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Torcall  laughed  a  low,  quiet  laugh. 

"  Is  it  death  I  am  fearing  now  —  I  who 
have  washed  my  hands  in  blood,  and  had 
love,  and  known  all  that  is  given  to  man? 
But  I  will  sing  you  a  song,   I  will." 

And  with  that  he  took  his  harp,  and  struck 
the  strings. 

There  is  a  lonely  stream  afar  in  a  lone  dim  land : 

It  hath  white  dust  for  shore  it  has,  white  bones  be- 
strew the  strand  : 

The  only  thing  that  liveth  there  is  a  naked  leaping 
sword ; 

But  I,  who  a  seer  am,  have  seen  the  whirling  hand 
Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 

A  shadowy  shape  of  cloud  and  mist,  of  gloom  and 

dusk,  she  stands, 

The  Washer  of  the  Ford  : 
She  laughs,  at  times,  and  strews  the  dust  through  the 

hollow  of  her  hands. 

She  counts  the  sins  of  all  men  there,  and  slays  the 

red-stained  horde  — 
The  ghosts  of  all  the  sins  of  men  must  know  the 

whirling  sword 

Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 

She  stoops  and  laughs  when  in  the  dust  she  sees  a 

writhing  limb  : 
"  Go  back  into  the  ford,"  she  says,  "  and  hither  and 

thither  swim ; 

29 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Then  I  shall  wash  you  white  as  snow,  and  shall  take 

you  by  the  hand, 
And  slay  you  here  in  the  silence  with  this  my  whirl- 
ing brand. 
And  trample  you  into  the  dust  of  this  white  windless 
sand  —  " 

This  is  the  laughing  word 
Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford 
Along  that  silent  strand. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time  after  Torcall 
Dall  sang  that  song.  The  oars  took  up  the 
moonshine  and  flung  it  hither  and  thither  like 
loose  shining  stones.  The  foam  at  the  prow 
curled  and  leaped. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  rowers  broke  into  a 
long,  low  chant  — 

Vb,  eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho, 

Singeth  the  Sword 
Eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho, 

Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford  ! 

And  at  that  all  ceased  from  rowing.  Stand- 
ing erect,  they  lifted  up  their  oars  against  the 
stars,  and  the  wild  voices  of  them  flew  out 
upon  the  night  — 

Yo^  eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho, 

Singeth  the  Sword 
Eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho. 

Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 

30 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Torcall  Dall  laughed.  Then  he  drew  his 
sword  from  his  side  and  plunged  it  into  the 
sea.  When  he  drew  the  blade  out  of  the 
water  and  whirled  it  on  high,  all  the  white 
shining  drops  of  it  swirled  about  his  head 
like  a  sleety  rain. 

And  at  that  the  steersman  let  go  the  steer- 
ing-oar and  drew  his  sword,  and  clove  a  flow- 
ing wave.  But  with  the  might  of  his  blow 
the  sword  spun  him  round,  and  the  sword 
sliced  away  the  ear  of  the  man  who  had 
the  sternmost  oar.  Then  there  was  blood  in 
the  eyes  of  all  there.  The  man  staggered, 
and  felt  for  his  knife,  and  it  was  in  the  heart 
of  the  steersman. 

Then  because  these  two  men  were  leaders, 
and  had  had  a  blood-feud,  and  because  all 
there,  save  Torcall,  were  of  one  or  the  other 
side,  swords  and  knives  sang  a  song. 

The  rowers  dropped  their  oars ;  and  four 
men  fought  against  three. 

Torcall  laughed,  and  lay  back  in  his  place. 
While  out  of  the  wandering  wave  the  death 
of  each  man  clambered  into  the  hollow  of 
the  boat,  and  breathed  its  chill  upon  its  man, 
Torcall  the  Blind  took  his  harp.  He  sang 
31 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

this  song,  with  the  swirhng  spray  against  his 
face,  and  the  smell  of  blood  in  his  nostrils, 
and  the  feet  of  him  dabbling  in  the  red  tide 
that  rose  there. 

Oh,  'tis  a  good  thing  the  red  blood,  by  Odin  his 

word  I 
And  a  good  thing  it  is  to  hear  it  bubbling  deep. 
And  when  we  hear  the  laughter  of  the  Sword, 
Oh,  the  corbies  croak,  and  the  old  wail,  and  the 


women  weep 


And  busy  will  she  be  there  where  she  stands, 
Washing  the  red  out  of  the  sins  of  all  this  slaying 

horde ; 
And  trampling  the  bones  of  them  into  white  powdery 

sands, 
And  laughing  low  at  the  thirst  of  her  thirsty  sword  — 
The  Washer  of  the  Ford  I 

When  he  had  sung  that  song  there  was 
only  one  man  whose  pulse  still  beat,  and  he 
was  at  the  bow. 

"A  bitter  black  curse  upon  you,  Torcall 
Dall !  "  he  groaned  out  of  the  ooze  of  blood 
that  was  in  his  mouth. 

"  And  who  will  you  be  ?  "  said  the  BUnd 
Harper. 

"  I  am  Fergus,  the  son  of  Art,  the  son  of 
Fergus  of  the  Duns." 
32 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"  Well,  it  is  a  song  for  your  death  I  will 
make,  Fergus  mac  Art  mhic  Fheargus :  and 
because  you  are  the  last." 

With  that  Torcall  struck  a  wild  sob  out  of 
his  harp,  and  he  sang  — 

Oh,  death  of  Fergus,  that  is  lying  in  the  boat  here, 
Betwixt  the  man  of  the  red  hair  and  him  of  the 
black  beard, 
Rise  now,  and  out  of  thy  cold  white  eyes  take  out  the 
fear, 
And  let  Fergus  mac  Art  mhic  Fheargus  see  his 
weird ! 

Sure,  now,  it 's  a  blind  man  I  am,  but  I  'm  thinking 
I  see 
The  shadow  of  you  crawling  across  the  dead. 
Soon  you  will  twine  your  arm  around  his  shaking 
knee, 
And  be  whispering  your  silence  into  his  listless 
head. 
And.  that  is  why,  O  Fergus  — 

But  here  the  man  hurled  his  sword  into 
the  sea,  and  with  a  choking  cry  fell  forward ; 
and  upon  the  white  sands  he  was,  beneath 
the  trampling  feet  of  the  Washer  of  the 
Ford. 


33 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 


II. 


It  was  a  fair  wind  that  blew  beneath  the 
stars  that  night.  At  dawn  the  mountains  of 
Skye  were  Hke  turrets  of  a  great  Dun  against 
the  east. 

But  Torcall  the  Blind  Harper  did  not  see 
that  thing.  Sleep,  too,  was  upon  him.  He 
smiled  in  that  sleep,  for  in  his  mind  he  saw 
the  dead  men,  that  were  of  the  alien  people, 
his  foes,  draw  near  the  stream  that  was  in  a 
far  place.  The  shaking  of  them,  poor, 
tremulous  frostbit  leaves  they  were,  thin  and 
sere,  made  the  only  breath  there  was  in  that 
desert. 

At  the  ford  —  this  is  what  he  saw  in  his 
vision  —  they  fell  down  like  stricken  deer 
with  the  hounds  upon  them. 

"What  is  this  stream?  "  they  cried  in  the 
thin  voice  of  rain  across  the  moors. 

"  The  River  of  Blood,"  said  a  voice. 

"  And  who  are  you  that  are  in  the  silence  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Washer  of  the  Ford." 

And  with  that  each  red  soul  was  seized 
and  thrown  into  the  water  of  the  ford ;  and 
34 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

when  white  as  a  sheep-bone  on  the  hill,  was 
taken  in  one  hand  by  the  Washer  of  the 
Ford  and  flung  into  the  air,  where  no  wind 
was  and  where  sound  was  dead,  and  was 
then  severed  this  way  and  that,  in  four 
whirHng  blows  of  the  sword  from  the  four 
quarters  of  the  world.  Then  it  was  that  the 
Washer  of  the  Ford  trampled  upon  what  fell 
to  the  ground,  till  under  the  feet  of  her  was 
only  a  white  sand,  white  as  powder,  light  as 
the  dust  of  the  yellow  flowers  that  grow  in 
the  grass. 

It  was  at  that  Torcall  Dall  smiled  in  his 
sleep.  He  did  not  hear  the  washing  of  the 
sea;  no,  nor  any  idle  plashing  of  the  un- 
oared  boat.  Then  he  dreamed,  and  it  was 
of  the  woman  he  had  left,  seven  summer- 
sailings  ago,  in  Lochlin.  He  thought  her 
hand  was  in  his,  and  that  her  heart  was 
against  his. 

"Ah,  dear,  beautiful  heart  of  woman,"  he 
said,  "  and  what  is  the  pain  that  has  put  a 
shadow  upon  you?  " 

It  was  a  sweet  voice  that  he  heard  coming 
out  of  sleep. 

*' Torcall,  it  is  the  weary  love  I  have." 
35 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"  Ah,  heart  o'  me,  dear  !  sure  't  is  a  bitter 
pain  I  have  had,  too,  and  I  away  from  you  all 
these  years." 

"  There 's  a  man's  pain,  and  there 's  a 
woman's  pain." 

"  By  the  blood  of  Balder,  Hildyr,  I  would 
have  both  upon  me  to  take  it  off  the  dear 
heart  that  is  here." 

''Torcall!" 

"Yes,  white  one." 

"We  are  not  alone,  we  two  in  the  dark." 

And  when  she  had  said  that  thing,  Torcall 
felt  two  baby  arms  go  round  his  neck,  and 
two  leaves  of  a  wild  rose  press  cool  and  sweet 
against  his  lips. 

"Ah!  what  is  this?"  he  cried,  with  his 
heart  beating,  and  the  blood  in  his  body 
singing  a  glad  song. 

A  low  voice  crooned  in  his  ear :  a  bitter- 
sweet song  it  was,  passing-sweet,  passing- 
bitter. 

"  Ah,  white  one,  white  one,"  he  moaned ; 
"  ah,  the  wee  fawn  o'  me  !  Baby  o'  foam, 
bonnie  wee  lass,  put  your  sight  upon  me  that 
I  may  see  the  blue  eyes  that  are  mine  too 
and  Hildyr's." 

36 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

But  the  child  only  nestled  closer.  Like  a 
fledgling  in  a  great  nest  she  was.  If  God 
heard  her  song,  He  was  a  glad  God  that 
day.  The  blood  that  was  in  her  body  called 
to  the  blood  that  was  in  his  body.  He  could 
say  no  word.  The  tears  were  in  his  blind 
eyes. 

Then  Hildyr  leaned  into  the  dark,  and 
took  his  harp,  and  played  upon  it.  It  was 
of  the  fonnsheen  he  had  learned,  far,  far 
away,  where  the  isles  are. 

She  sang :  but  he  could  not  hear  what  she 
sang. 

Then  the  little  lips,  that  were  like  a  cool 
wave  upon  the  dry  sand  of  his  life,  whispered 
into  a  low  song :  and  the  wavering  of  it  was 
like  this  in  his  brain  — 

Where  the  winds  gather 

The  souls  of  the  dead, 
O  Torcall,  my  father, 

My  soul  is  led  ! 

In  Hildyr-mead 

I  was  thrown,  I  was  sown : 
Out  of  thy  seed 

I  am  sprung,  I  am  blown  ! 

37 


4094.3; 


1^ 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

But  where  is  the  way 

F^r  Hildyr  and  me, 
By  the  hill-moss  gray 

Or  the  gray  sea  ? 

For  a  river  is  here, 

And  a  whirling  sword  — 
And  a  Woman  washing 

By  a  Ford ! 

With  that,  Torcall  Dall  gave  a  wild  cry, 
and  sheathed  an  arm  about  the  wee  white 
one,  and  put  out  a  hand  to  the  bosom  that 
loved  him.  But  there  was  no  white  breast 
there,  and  no  white  babe  :  and  what  was 
against  his  lips  was  his  own  hand  red  with 
blood. 

"  O  Hildyr  !  "  he  cried. 

But  only  the  splashing  of  the  waves  did  he 
hear. 

"  O  white  one  !  "  he  cried. 

But  only  the  scream  of  a  sea-mew,  as  it 
hovered  over  that  boat  filled  with  dead  men, 
made  answer. 


38 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 


III. 

All  day  the  BUnd  Harper  steered  the  gal- 
ley of  the  dead.  There  was  a  famt  wind 
moving  out  of  the  west.  The  boat  went 
before  it,  slow,  and  with  a  low,  sighing  wash. 

Torcall  saw  the  red  gaping  wounds  of  the 
dead,  and  the  glassy  eyes  of  the  nine  men. 

"  It  is  better  not  to  be  blind  and  to  see 
the  dead,"  he  muttered,  "  than  to  be  blind 
and  to  see  the  dead." 

The  man  who  had  been  steersman  leaned 
against  him.  He  took  him  in  his  shuddering 
grip  and  thrust  him  into  the  sea. 

But  when,  an  hour  later,  he  put  his  hand 
to  the  coolness  of  the  water,  he  drew  it  back 
with  a  cry,  for  it  was  on  the  cold,  stiff  face  of 
the  dead  man  that  it  had  fallen.  The  long 
hair  had  caught  in  a  cleft  in  the  leather 
where  the  withes  had  given. 

For  another  hour  Torcall  sat  with  his  chin 
in  his  right  hand,  and  his  unseeing  eyes  star- 
ing upon  the  dead.  He  heard  no  sound  at 
all,  save  the  lap  of  wave  upon  wave,  and  the 
39 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

suss  of  spray  against  spray,  and  a  bubbling 
beneath  the  boat,  and  the  low,  steady  swish 
of  the  body  that  trailed  alongside  the  steer- 
ing oar. 

At  the  second  hour  before  sundown  he 
lifted  his  head.  The  sound  he  heard  was 
the  sound  of  waves  beating  upon  rocks. 

At  the  hour  before  sundown  he  moved  the 
oar  rapidly  to  and  fro,  and  cut  away  the  body 
that  trailed  behind  the  boat.  The  noise  of 
the  waves  upon  the  rocks  was  now  a  loud 
song. 

When  the  last  sunfire  burned  upon  his 
neck  and  made  the  long  hair  upon  his 
shoulders  ashine,  he  smelt  the  green  smell 
of  grass.  Then  it  was  too  that  he  heard  the 
muffled  fall  of  the  sea,  in  a  quiet  haven, 
where  shelves  of  sand  were. 

He  followed  that  sound,  and  while  he 
strained  to  hear  any  voice  the  boat  grided 
upon  the  sand,  and  drifted  to  one  side. 
Taking  his  harp,  Torcall  drove  an  oar  into 
the  sand,  and  leaped  on  to  the  shore.  When 
he  was  there,  he  listened.  There  was  silence. 
Far,  far  away  he  heard  the  falling  of  a 
mountain-torrent,  and  the  thin,  faint  cry  of 
40 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

an  eagle,  where  the  sun-flame  dyed  its  eyrie 
as  with  streaming  blood. 

So  he  lifted  his  harp,  and,  harping  low, 
with  a  strange,  wild  song  on  his  lips,  moved 
away  from  that  place,  and  gave  no  more 
thought  to  the  dead. 

It  was  deep  gloaming  when  he  came  to  a 
wood.     He  felt  the  cold  green  breath  of  it. 

"  Come,"  said  a  voice,  low  and  sweet. 

"And  who  will  you  be?"  asked  Torcall 
the  Harper,  trembling  because  of  the  sudden 
voice  in  the  stillness. 

"  I  am  a  child,  and  here  is  my  hand,  and 
I  will  lead  you,  Torcall  of  Lochlin." 

The  blind  man  had  fear  upon  him. 

"  Who  are  you  that  in  a  strange  place  are 
for  knowing  who  I  am?  " 

"  Come." 

"  Ay,  sure,  it  is  coming  I  am,  white  one  j 
but  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  whence  you 
came,  and  whither  we  go." 

Then  a  voice  that  he  knew  sang  : 

O  where  the  winds  gather 

The  souls  of  the  dead, 
O  Torcall,  my  father, 

My  soul  is  led  ! 

41 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

But  a  river  is  here, 

And  a  whirling  Sword  — 

And  a  Woman  washing 
By  a  Ford  ! 

Torcall  Dall  was  as  the  last  leaf  on  a  tree 
at  that. 

"Were  you  on  the  boat?"  he  whispered 
hoarsely. 

But  it  seemed  to  him  that  another  voice 
answered  :  "  Vea,  eve?i  so.^* 

"  Tell  me,  for  I  have  blindness :  Is  it 
peace?  " 

"  It  is  peace." 

"  Are  you  man,  or  child,  or  of  the  Hidden 
People?" 

"  I  am  a  shepherd." 

"  A  shepherd  ?  Then,  sure,  you  will  guide 
me  through  this  wood?  And  what  will  be 
beyond  this  wood?  " 

"A  river." 

"  And  what  river  will  that  be  ?  " 

"  Deep  and  terrible.  It  runs  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow." 

"  And  is  there  no  ford  there  ?  " 

"  Ay,  there  is  a  ford." 

"  And  who  will  guide  me  across  that  ford  ?  " 
42 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"She." 

"Who?" 

"The  Washer  of  the  Ford." 

But  hereat  Torcall  Dall  gave  a  sore  cry 
and  snatched  his  hand  away,  and  fled  side- 
long into  an  alley  of  the  wood. 

It  was  moonshine  when  he  lay  down, 
weary.  The  sound  of  flowing  water  filled 
his  ears. 

"  Come,"  said  a  voice. 

So  he  rose  and  went.  When  the  cold 
breath  of  the  water  was  upon  his  face,  the 
guide  that  led  him  put  a  fruit  into  his  hand. 

"  Eat,  Torcall  Dall !  " 

He  ate.  He  was  no  more  Torcall  Dall. 
His  sight  was  upon  him  again.  Out  of  the 
blackness  shadows  came  ;  out  of  the  shadows, 
the  great  boughs  of  trees ;  from  the  boughs, 
dark  branches  and  dark  clusters  of  leaves ; 
above  the  branches,  white  stars ;  below  the 
branches,  white  flowers ;  and  beyond  these, 
the  moonshine  on  the  grass  and  the  moon- 
fire  on  the  flowing  of  a  river  dark  and  deep. 

"  Take  your  harp,  O  Harper,  and  sing  the 
song  of  what  you  see." 
43 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Torcall  heard  the  voice,  but  saw  no  one. 
No  shadow  moved.  Then  he  walked  out 
upon  the  moonUt  grass ;  and  at  the  ford  he 
saw  a  woman  stooping  and  washing  shroud 
after  shroud  of  woven  sunbeams :  washing 
them  there  in  the  flowing  water,  and  singing 
a  low  song  that  he  did  not  hear.  He  did  not 
see  her  face.  But  she  was  young,  and  with 
long  black  hair  that  fell  like  the  shadow  of 
night  over  a  white  rock. 

So  Torcall  took  his  harp,  and  he  sang : 

Glory  to  the  great  Gods,  it  is  no  Sword  I  am  seeing : 
Nor  do  I  see  aught  but  the  flowing  of  a  river. 
And  I  see  shadows  on  the  flow  that  are  ever  fleeing, 
And  I  see  a  woman  washing  shrouds  for  ever  and  ever. 

Then  he  ceased,  for  he  heard  the  woman 
sing: 

Glory  to  God  on  high,  and  to  Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus, 
Here  am  I  washing  away  the  sins  of  the  shriven, 
O  Torcall  of  Lochlin,  throw  off  the  red  sins  that  ye 

cherish 
And  I  will  be  giving  you  the  washen  shroud  that  they 

wear  in  Heaven. 

Filled  with  a  great  awe,  Torcall  bowed  his 
head.  Then  once  more  he  took  his  harp, 
and  he  sang : 

44 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

0  well  it  is  I  am  seeing,  Woman  of  the  Shrouds, 
That  you  have  not  for  me  any  whirling  of  the  Sword  : 

1  have  lost  my  gods,  O  woman,  so  what  will  the  name 

be 
Of  thee  and  thy  gods,  O  woman  that  art  Washer  of 
the  Ford  ? 

But  the  woman  did  not  look  up  from  the 
dark  water,  nor  did  she  cease  from  washing 
the  shrouds  made  of  the  woven  moonbeams. 
But  he  heard  this  song  above  the  sighing  of 
the  water : 

It  is  Mary  Magdalene  my  name  is,  and  I  loved  Christ. 
And  Christ  is  the  son  of  God,  and  Mary  the  Mother 

of  Heaven. 
And  this  river  is  the  river  of  death,  and  the  shadows 
Are  the  fleeing  souls   that  are   lost  if  they  be  not 

shriven. 

Then  Torcall  drew  nigher  unto  the  stream. 
A  melancholy  wind  was  upon  it. 

"  Where  are  all  the  dead  of  the  world  ?  " 
he  said. 

But  the  woman  answered  not. 

"And  what  is  the  end,  you  that  are  called 
Mary?" 

Then  the  woman  rose. 

"  Would  you  cross  the  Ford,  O  Torcall  the 
Harper?" 

45 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

He  made  no  word  upon  that.  But  he 
hstened.  He  heard  a  woman  singmg  faint 
and  low  far  away  in  the  dark.  He  drew 
more  near. 

*' Would  you  cross  the  Ford,  O  Torcall?" 

He  made  no  word  upon  that.  But  once 
more  he  listened.  He  heard  a  little  child 
crying  in  the  night. 

"Ah,  lonely  heart  of  the  white  one,"  he 
sighed,  and  his  tears  fell. 

Mary  Magdalene  turned  and  looked  upon 
him. 

It  was  the  face  of  Sorrow  she  had.  She 
stooped  and  took  up  the  tears.  "  They  are 
bells  of  joy,"  she  said.  And  he  heard  a  wild 
sweet  ringing  in  his  ears. 

A  prayer  came  out  of  his  heart.  A  blind 
prayer  it  was,  but  God  gave  it  wings.  It 
flew  to  Mary,  who  took  and  kissed  it,  and 
gave  it  song. 

"  It  is  the  Song  of  Peace,"  she  said.  And 
Torcall  had  peace. 

"What  is  best,  O  Torcall?"  she  asked, 
rustling-sweet  as  rain  among  the  leaves  her 
voice  was  —  "  What  is  best  ?  The  sword,  or 
peace  ?  " 

46 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"  Peace,"  he  answered  ;  and  he  was  white 
now,  and  was  old. 

"  Take  your  harp,"  Mary  said,  "  and  go 
in  unto  the  Ford.  But  lo,  now  I  clothe  you 
with  a  white  shroud.  And  if  you  fear  the 
drowning  flood,  follow  the  bells  that  were 
your  tears :  and  if  the  dark  affright  you, 
follow  the  song  of  the  Prayer  that  came  out 
of  your  heart." 

So  Torcall  the  Harper  moved  into  the 
whelming  flood,  and  he  played  a  wild  strange 
air,  like  the  laughing  of  a  child. 

Deep  silence  there  was.  The  moonshine 
lay  upon  the  obscure  wood,  and  the  darkling 
river  flowed  sighing  through  the  soundless 
gloom.  The  Washer  of  the  Ford  stooped 
once  more.  Low  and  sweet,  as  of  yore  and 
for  ever,  over  the  drowning  souls,  she  sang 
her  immemorial  song. 


47 


MUIME    CHRIOSD 


49 


Note.  —  This  "  legendary  romance  "  is  based  upon 
the  ancient  and  still  current  (though  often  hopelessly 
contradictory)  legends  concerning  Brighid,  or  Bride, 
commonly  known  as  "  Muime  Chriosd,"  that  is, 
the  Foster-Mother  of  Christ.  From  the  universal 
honour  and  reverence  in  which  she  was  and  is  held 

—  second  only  in  this  respect  to  the  Virgin  herself 

—  she  is  also  called  "  Mary  of  the  Gael."  Another 
name,  frequent  in  the  West,  is  "Brighde-nam-Bratj," 
that  is,  St.  Bride  of  the  Mantle,  a  name  explained 
in  the  course  of  my  legendary  story.  Brighid  the 
Christian  saint  should  not,  however,  as  is  commonly 
done,  be  confused  with  a  much  earlier  and  remoter 
Brighid,  the  ancient  Celtic  muse  of  Song. 


50 


ST.  BRIDE  OF  THE  ISLES. 

SLOINNEADH    BRIGHDE,    IVIUIME   CHRIOSD 

Brighde  nighean  Dbghaill  Duinn, 

'Ic  Aoidtli,  'ic  Arta,  *ic  Cuinn. 

Gach  la  is  gach  oidhche 

Ni  mi  cuimhneachadh  air  sloinneadh  Brighde. 

Cha  mharbhar  mi, 

Cha  ghuinear  mi, 

Cha  ghonar  mi, 

Cha  mho  dh'  fhagas  Criosd  an  dearmad  mi ; 

Cha  loisg  teine  gniomh  Shatain  mi; 

'S  cha  bhath  uisge  no  saile  mi ; 

'S  mi  fo  chomraig  Naoimh  Moire 

'S  mo  chaomh  mhuime,  Brighde. 

THE   GENEALOGY  OF  ST.  BRffiGET  OR  ST.  BRIDE, 
FOSTER-MOTHER    OF    CHRIST. 

St.  Bridget,  the  daughter  of  Dughall  Donn, 

Son  of  Hugh,  son  of  Art,  son  of  Conn. 

Each  day  and  each  night 

I  will  meditate  on  the  genealogy  of  St.  Bridget. 

[Whereby]  I  will  not  be  killed, 

I  will  not  be  wounded, 

I  will  not  be  bewitched ; 

Neither  will  Christ  forsake  me; 

51 


Muime  Chriosd 

Satan's  fire  will  not  burn  me ; 

Neither  water  nor  sea  shall  drown  me ; 

For  I  am  under  the  protection  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 

And  my  meek  and  gentle  foster-mother,  St.  Bridget. 


I 


BEFORE  ever  St.  Colum  came  across  the 
Moyle  to  the  island  of  lona,  that  was 
then  by  strangers  called  Innis-nan-Dhruid- 
hneach,  the  Isle  of  the  Druids,  and  by  the 
natives  loua,  there  lived  upon  the  southeast 
slope  of  Dun-I  a  poor  herdsman,  named 
Duvach.  Poor  he  was,  for  sure,  though  it 
was  not  for  this  reason  that  he  could  not  win 
back  to  Ireland,  green  Banba,  as  he  called 
it :  but  because  he  was  an  exile  thence,  and 
might  never  again  smell  the  heather  blowing 
over  Sliabh-Gorm  in  what  of  old  was  the 
realm  of  Aoimag. 

He  was  a  prince  in  his  own  land,  though 
none  on  lona  save  the  Arch-Druid  knew 
what  his  name  was.  The  high  priest,  how- 
ever, knew  that  Duvach  was  the  royal 
Dughall,  called  Dughall  Donn,  the  son  of 
Hugh  the  King,  the  son  of  Art,  the  son  of 
52 


Muime  Chriosd 

Conn.  In  his  youth  he  had  been  accused  of 
having  done  a  wrong  against  a  noble  maiden 
of  the  blood.  When  her  child  was  born  he 
was  made  to  swear  across  her  dead  body  that 
he  would  be  true  to  the  daughter  for  whom 
she  had  given  up  her  life,  that  he  would  rear 
her  in  a  holy  place  but  away  from  Eir^,  and 
that  he  would  never  set  foot  within  that  land 
again.  This  was  a  bitter  thing  for  Dughall 
Donn  to  do  :  the  more  so  as,  before  the 
King,  and  the  priests,  and  the  people,  he 
swore  by  the  Wind,  and  by  the  Moon,  and 
by  the  Sun,  that  he  was  guiltless  of  the  thing 
of  which  he  was  accused.  There  were  many 
there  who  believed  him  because  of  that 
sacred  oath :  others,  too,  forasmuch  as  that 
Morna  the  Princess  had  herself  sworn  to  the 
same  effect.  Moreover,  there  was  Aodh  of 
the  Golden  Hair,  a  poet  and  seer,  who 
avowed  that  Morna  had  given  birth  to  an 
immortal,  whose  name  would  one  day  be  as 
a  moon  among  the  stars  for  glory.  But  the 
King  would  not  be  appeased,  though  he 
spared  the  life  of  his  youngest  son.  So  it 
was  that,  by  the  advice  of  Aodh  of  the 
Druids,  Dughall  Donn  went  northwards 
53 


Muime  Chriosd 

through  the  realm  of  Clanadon  and  so  to  the 
sea-loch  that  was  then  called  Loc  Feobal. 
There  he  took  boat  with  some  wayfarers 
bound  for  Alba.  But  in  the  Moyle  a  tem- 
pest arose,  and  the  frail  galley  was  driven 
northward,  and  at  sunrise  was  cast  like  a 
great  fish,  spent  and  dead,  upon  the  south 
end  of  loua,  that  is  now  lona.  Only  two 
of  the  mariners  survived :  Dughall  Donn 
and  the  Httle  child.  This  was  at  the  place 
where,  on  a  day  of  the  days  in  a  year  that 
was  not  yet  come,  St.  Colum  landed  in 
his  coracle,  and  gave  thanks  on  his  bended 
knees. 

When,  warmed  by  the  sun,  they  rose,  they 
found  themselves  in  a  waste  place.  Ill  was 
Dughall  in  his  mind  because  of  the  portents, 
and  now  to  his  astonishment  and  alarm  the 
child  Bridget  knelt  on  the  stones,  and,  with 
claspt  hands,  small  and  pink  as  the  sea-shells 
round  about  her,  sang  a  song  of  words  which 
were  unknown  to  him.  This  was  the  more 
marvellous,  as  she  was  yet  but  an  infant,  and 
could  say  no  word  even  of  Erse,  the  only 
tongue  she  had  heard. 

At  this  portent,  he  knew  that  Aodh  had 
54 


Muime  Chriosd 

spoken  seeingly.  Truly  this  child  was  not 
of  human  parentage.  So  he,  too,  kneeled, 
and,  bowing  before  her,  asked  if  she  were 
of  the  race  of  the  Tuatha  de  Danann,  or  of 
the  older  gods,  and  what  her  will  was,  that 
he  might  be  her  ser\^ant.  Then  it  was  that 
the  kneehng  babe  looked  at  him,  and  sang 
in  a  low  sweet  voice  in  Erse  : 

I  am  but  a  little  child, 
Dughall,  son  of  Hugh,  son  of  Art, 
But  my  garment  shall  be  laid 
On  the  lord  of  the  world, 
Yea,  surely  it  shall  be  that  He 
The  King  of  the  Elements  Himself 
Shall  lean  against  my  bosom. 
And  I  will  give  him  peace, 
And  peace  will  I  give  to  all  who  ask 
Because  of  this  mighty  Prince, 
And   because   of  his   Mother   that  is  the 
Daughter  of  Peace. 

And  while  Dughall  Donn  w^as  still  marvel- 
ling at  this  thing,  the  Arch-Druid  of  lona 
approached,  with  his  white-robed  priests. 
A  grave  welcome  was  given  to  the  stranger, 
but  while  the  youngest  of  the  servants  of 
God  was  entrusted  with  the  child,  the  Arch- 
Druid  took  Dughall  aside,  and  questioned 
55 


Muime  Chriosd 

him.  It  was  not  till  the  third  day  that  the 
old  man  gave  his  decision.  Dughall  Donn 
was  to  abide  on  lona  if  he  so  willed :  the 
child  certainly  was  to  stay.  His  life  would 
be  spared,  nor  would  he  be  a  bondager  of 
any  kind,  and  a  little  land  to  till  would  be 
given  him,  and  all  that  he  might  need.  But 
of  his  past  he  was  to  say  no  word.  His 
name  was  to  become  as  naught,  and  he  was 
to  be  known  simply  as  Duvach.  The  child, 
too,  was  to  be  named  Bride,  for  that  was  the 
way  the  name  Bridget  was  called  in  the 
Erse  of  the  Isles. 

To  the  question  of  Dughall,  that  was 
thenceforth  Duvach,  as  to  why  he  laid  so 
great  stress  on  the  child,  that  was  a  girl,  and 
the  reputed  offspring  of  shame  at  that, 
Cathal  the  Arch-Druid  repHed  thus :  "  My 
kinsman  Aodh  of  the  Golden  Hair,  who  sent 
you  here,  was  wiser  than  Hugh  the  King 
and  all  the  Druids  of  Aoimag.  Truly,  this 
child  is  an  Immortal.  There  is  an  ancient 
prophecy  concerning  her  :  surely  of  her  who 
is  now  here,  and  no  other.  There  shall  be, 
it  says,  a  spotless  maid  born  of  a  virgin  of 
the  ancient  immemorial  race  in  Innisfail. 
56 


Muime  Chriosd 

And  when  for  the  seventh  time  the  sacred 
year  has  come,  she  will  hold  Eternity  in  her 
lap  as  a  white  flower.  Her  maiden  breasts 
shall  swell  with  milk  for  the  Prince  of  the 
World.  She  shall  give  suck  to  the  King  of 
the  Elements.  So  I  say  unto  you,  Duvach, 
go  in  peace.  Take  unto  thyself  a  wife,  and 
live  upon  the  place  I  will  give  thee  on  the 
east  side  of  loua.  Treat  Bride  as  though 
she  were  thy  spirit,  but  leave  her  much 
alone,  and  let  her  learn  of  the  sun  and  the 
wind.  In  the  fulness  of  time  the  prophecy 
shall  be  fulfilled." 

So  was  it,  from  that  day  of  the  days. 
Duvach  took  a  wife  unto  himself,  who 
weaned  the  little  Bride,  who  grew  in  beauty 
and  grace,  so  that  all  men  marvelled.  Year 
by  year  for  seven  years  the  wife  of  Duvach 
bore  him  a  son,  and  these  grew  apace  in 
strength,  so  that  by  the  beginning  of  the 
third  year  of  the  seventh  cycle  of  Bride's 
life  there  were  three  stalwart  youths  to 
brother  her,  and  three  comely  and  strong 
lads,  and  one  young  boy  fair  to  see.  Nor 
did  any  one,  not  even  Bride  herself,  saving 
Cathal  the  Arch-Druid,  know  that  Duvach 
57 


Muime  Chriosd 

the  herdsman  was  Dughall  Donn,  of  a 
princely  race  in  Innisfail. 

In  the  end,  too,  Duvach  came  to  think 
that  he  had  dreamed,  or  at  the  least  that 
Cathal  had  not  interpreted  the  prophecy 
aright.  For  though  Bride  was  of  exceeding 
beauty,  and  of  a  strange  piety  that  made  the 
young  Druids  bow  before  her  as  though  she 
were  a  bandia,  yet  the  world  went  en  as 
before,  and  the  days  brought  no  change. 
Often,  while  she  was  still  a  child,  he  had 
questioned  her  about  the  words  she  had  said 
as  a  babe,  but  she  had  no  memory  of  them. 
Once,  in  her  ninth  year,  he  came  upon  her 
on  the  hillside  of  Dun-I  singing  these  self- 
same words.  Her  eyes  dreamed  afar  away. 
He  bowed  his  head,  and,  praying  to  the 
Giver  of  light,  hurried  to  Cathal.  The  old 
man  bade  him  speak  no  more  to  the  child 
concerning  the  mysteries. 

Bride  lived  the  hours  of  her  days  upon  the 
slopes  of  Dun-I,  herding  the  sheep,  or  in 
following  the  kye  upon  the  ».green  hillocks 
and  grassy  dunes  of  what  then  as  now  was 
called  the  Machar.  The  beauty  of  the  world 
was  her  daily  food.  The  spirit  within  her 
58 


Muime  Chriosd 

was  like  sunlight  behind  a  white  flower. 
The  birdeens  in  the  green  bushes  sang  for 
joy  when  they  saw  her  blue  eyes.  The  tender 
prayers  that  were  in  her  heart  for  all  the 
beasts  and  birds,  for  helj^less  children,  and 
tired  women,  and  for  all  who  were  old,  were 
often  seen  flying  above  her  head  in  the  form 
of  white  doves  of  sunshine. 

But  when  the  middle  of  the  year  came 
that  was,  though  Duvach  had  forgotten  it, 
the  year  of  the  prophecy,  his  eldest  son, 
Conn,  who  was  now  a  man,  murmured 
against  the  virginity  of  Bride,  because  of 
her  beauty  and  because  a  chieftain  of  the 
mainland  was  eager  to  wed  her.  "  I  shall 
wed  Bride  or  raid  loua"  was  the  message 
he  had  sent. 

So  one  day,  before  the  great  fire  of  the 
summer  festival.  Conn  and  his  brothers  re- 
proached Bride. 

"  Idle  are  these  pure  eyes,  O  Bride,  not  to 
be  as  lamps  at  thy  marriage-bed." 

"Truly, it  is  not  by  the  eyes  that  we  live," 

replied  the  maiden  gently,  while  to  their  fear 

and  amazement  she  passed  her  hand  before 

her  face  and  let  them  see  that  the  sockets 

59 


Muime  Chrlosd 

were  empty.  Trembling  with  awe  at  this 
portent,  Duvach  intervened. 

"  By  the  Sun  I  swear  it,  O  Bride,  that  thou 
shalt  marry  whomsoever  thou  wilt  and  none 
other,  and  when  thou  wiliest,  or  not  at  all  if 
such  be  thy  will." 

And  when  he  had  spoken,  Bride  smiled,  and 
passed  her  hand  before  her  face  again,  and 
all  there  were  abashed  because  of  the  blue 
light  as  of  morning  that  was  in  her  shining 
eyes. 


II 


The  still  weather  had  come,  and  all  the 
isles  lay  in  beauty.  Far  south,  beyond 
vision,  ranged  the  coasts  of  Eir^  :  westward, 
leagues  of  quiet  ocean  dreamed  into  unsailed 
wastes  whose  waves  at  last  laved  the  shores 
of  Tirna'n  6g,  the  Land  of  Eternal  Youth  : 
northward,  the  spell-bound  waters  sparkled 
in  the  sunlight,  broken  here  and  there  by 
purple  shadows,  that  were  the  isles  of  Staffa 
and  Ulva,  Lunga  and  the  isles  of  the  columns, 
misty  Coll,  and  Tiree  that  is  the  land  beneath 
the  wave ;  with,  pale  blue  in  the  heat-haze, 
60 


Muime  Chriosd 

the  mountains  of  Rum  called  Haleval,  Has- 
keval,  and  Oreval,  and  the  sheer  Scuir-na- 
Gillian  and  the  peaks  of  the  Cuchullms  in 
remote  Skye. 

All  the  sweet  loveliness  of  a  late  spring 
remained,  to  give  a  freshness  to  the  glory  of 
summer.     The  birds  had  song  to  them  still. 

It  was  while  the  dew  was  yet  wet  on  the 
grass  that  Bride  came  out  of  her  father's 
house,  and  went  up  the  steep  slope  of  Dun-I. 
The  crying  of  the  ewes  and  lambs  at  the 
pastures  came  plaintively  against  the  dawn. 
The  lowing  of  the  kye  arose  from  the  sandy 
hollows  by  the  shore,  or  from  the  meadows 
on  the  lower  slopes.  Through  the  whole 
island  went  a  rapid  trickling  sound,  most 
sweet  to  hear  :  the  myriad  voices  of  twittering 
birds,  from  the  dotterel  in  the  seaweed  to 
the  larks  cUmbing  the  blue  spirals  of  heaven. 

This  was  the  morning  of  her  birth,  and 
she  was  clad  in  white.  About  her  waist  was 
a  girdle  of  the  sacred  rowan,  the  feathery 
green  leaves  of  it  flickering  dusky  shadows 
upon  her  robe  as  she  moved.  The  light  upon 
her  yellow  hair  was  as  when  morning  wakes, 
laughing  low  with  joy  amid  the  tall  corn.  As 
6i 


Muime  Chriosd 

she  went  she  sang,  soft  as  the  crooning  of  a 
dove.  If  any  had  been  there  to  hear  he 
would  have  been  abashed,  for  the  words  were 
not  in  Erse,  and  the  eyes  of  the  beautiful 
girl  were  as  those  of  one  in  a  vision. 

When,  at  last,  a  brief  while  before  sunrise, 
she  reached  the  summit  of  the  Scuir,  that  is 
so  small  a  hill  and  yet  seems  so  big  in  lona 
where  it  is  the  sole  peak,  she  found  three 
young  Druids  there,  ready  to  tend  the  sacred 
fire  the  moment  the  sun-rays  should  kindle 
it.  Each  was  clad  in  a  white  robe,  with 
fillets  of  oak-leaves ;  and  each  had  a  golden 
armlet.  They  made  a  quiet  obeisance  as  she 
approached.  One  stepped  forward,  with  a 
flush  in  his  face  because  of  her  beauty,  that 
was  as  a  sea-wave  for  grace,  and  a  flower  for 
purity,  and  sunlight  for  joy,  and  moonlight 
for  peace,  and  the  wind  for  fragrance. 

"  Thou  mayst  draw  near  if  thou  wilt,  Bride, 
daughter  of  Duvach,"  he  said,  with  something 
of  reverence  as  weU  as  of  grave  courtesy  in 
his  voice  :  "  for  the  holy  Cathal  hath  said  that 
the  Breath  of  the  Source  of  All  is  upon  thee. 
It  is  not  lawful  for  women  to  be  here  at  this 
moment,  but  thou  hast  the  law  shining  upon 
62 


Muime   Chrlosd 

thy  face  and  in  thine  eyes.  Hast  thou  come 
to  pray?" 

But  at  that  moment  a  low  cry  came  from 
one  of  his  companions.  He  turned,  and 
rejoined  his  fellows.  Then  all  three  sank 
upon  their  knees,  and  with  outstretched  arms 
hailed  the  rising  of  God. 

As  the  sun  rose,  a  solemn  chant  swelled 
from  their  hps,  ascending  as  incense  through 
the  silent  air.  The  glory  of  the  new  day  came 
soundlessly.  Peace  was  in  the  blue  heaven, 
on  the  blue-green  sea,  on  the  green  land. 
There  was  no  wind,  even  where  the  currents 
of  the  deep  moved  in  shadowy  purple.  The 
sea  itself  was  silent,  making  no  more  than  a 
sighing  slumber- breath  round  the  white  sands 
of  the  isle,  or  a  hushed  whisper  where  the  tide 
lifted  the  long  weed  that  clung  to  the  rocks. 

In  what  strange,  mysterious  way,  Bride  did 
not  see ;  but  as  the  three  Druids  held  their 
hands  before  the  sacred  fire  there  was  a  faint 
crackling,  then  three  thin  spirals  of  blue 
smoke  rose,  and  soon  dusky  red  and  wan 
yellow  tongues  of  flame  moved  to  and  fro. 
The  sacrifice  of  God  was  made.  Out  of  the 
immeasurable  heaven  He  had  come,  in  His 
63 


Muime  Chriosd 

golden  chariot.  Now,  in  the  wonder  and 
mystery  of  His  love,  He  was  reborn  upon 
the  world,  reborn  a  little  fugitive  flame  upon 
a  low  hill  in  a  remote  isle.  Great  must  be 
His  love  that  He  could  die  thus  daily  in  a 
thousand  places  :  so  great  His  love  that  He 
could  give  up  His  own  body  to  daily  death, 
and  suffer  the  holy  flame  that  was  in  the 
embers  he  illumined  to  be  lighted  and 
revered  and  then  scattered  to  the  four 
quarters  of  the  world. 

Bride  could  bear  no  longer  the  mystery 
of  this  great  love.  It  moved  her  to  an 
ecstasy.  What  tenderness  of  divine  love 
that  could  thus  redeem  the  world  daily : 
v/hat  long-suffering  for  all  the  evil  and 
cruelty  done  hourly  upon  the  weeping 
earth,  what  patience  with  the  bitterness  of 
the  blind  fates  !  The  beauty  of  the  worship 
of  Be'al  was  upon  her  as  a  golden  glory. 
Her  heart  leaped  to  a  song  that  could 
not  be  sung.  The  inexhaustible  love  and 
pity  in  her  soul  chanted  a  hymn  that  was 
heard  of  no  Druid  or  mortal  anywhere,  but 
was  known  of  the  white  spirits  of  Life. 

Bowing  her  head,  so  that  the  glad  tears 
64 


Muime  Chriosd 

fell  warm  as  thunder-rain  upon  her  hands, 
she  rose  and  moved  away. 

Not  far  from  the  summit  of  Dun- 1  is  a 
hidden  pool,  to  this  day  called  the  Fountain 
of  Youth.  Hitherward  she  went,  as  was  her 
wont  when  upon  the  hill  at  the  break  of  day, 
at  noon,  or  at  sundown.  Close  by  the  huge 
boulder,  which  hides  it  from  above,  she  heard 
a  pitiful  bleating,  and  soon  the  healing  of  her 
eyes  was  upon  a  lamb  which  had  become 
fixed  in  a  crevice  in  the  rock.  On  a  crag 
above  it  stood  a  falcon,  with  savage  cries, 
lusting  for  warm  blood.  With  swift  step 
Bride  drew  near.  There  was  no  hurt  to 
the  lambkin  as  she  lifted  it  in  her  arms. 
Soft  and  warm  was  it  there,  as  a  young  babe 
against  the  bosom  that  mothers  it.  Then 
with  quiet  eyes  she  looked  at  the  falcon,  who 
hooded  his  cruel  gaze. 

"  There  is  no  wrong  in  thee,  Seobhag,"  she 
said  gently ;  "  but  the  law  of  blood  shall  not 
prevail  for  ever.  Let  there  be  peace  this 
morn." 

And  when  she  had  spoken  this  word,  the 
wild  hawk  of  the  hills  flew  down  upon  her 
shoulder,  nor  did  the  heart  of  the  lambkin 
5  65 


Muime  Chriosd 

beat  the  quicker,  while  with  drowsy  eyes  it 
nestled  as  against  its  dam.  When  she  stood 
by  the  pool  she  laid  the  little  woolly  creature 
among  the  fern.  Already  the  bleating  of  it 
was  sweet  against  the  forlorn  heart  of  a  ewe. 
The  falcon  rose,  circled  above  her  head,  and 
with  swift  flight  sped  through  the  blue  air. 
For  a  time  Bride  watched  its  travelling 
shadow :  when  it  was  itself  no  more  than  a 
speck  in  the  golden  haze,  she  turned,  and 
stooped  above  the  Fountain  of  Youth. 

Beyond  it  stood  then,  though  for  ages  past 
there  has  been  no  sign  of  either,  two  quicken- 
trees.  Now  they  were  gold-green  in  the 
morning  light,  and  the  brown-green  berries 
that  had  not  yet  reddened  were  still  small. 
Fair  to  see  was  the  flickering  of  the  long 
finger-shadows  upon  the  granite  rocks  and 
boulders. 

Often  had  Bride  dreamed  through  their 
foliage  ;  but  now  she  stared  in  amaze.  She 
had  put  her  lips  to  the  water,  and  had  started 
back  because  she  had  seen,  beyond  her  o-vvn 
image,  that  of  a  woman  so  beautiful  that  her 
soul  was  troubled  within  her,  and  had  cried 
its  inaudible  cry,  worshipping.  When,  trem- 
66 


Muime   Chriosd 

bling,  she  had  glanced  again,  there  was  none 
beside  herself.  Yet  what  had  happened? 
For,  as  she  stared  at  the  quicken-trees,  she 
saw  that  their  boughs  had  interlaced,  and 
that  they  now  became  a  green  arch.  What 
was  stranger  still  was  that  the  rowan -clusters 
hung  in  blood-red  masses,  although  the  late 
heats  were  yet  a  long  way  off. 

Bride  rose,  her  body  quivering  because  of 
the  cool  sweet  draught  of  the  Fountain  of 
Youth,  so  that  almost  she  imagined  the  water 
was  for  her  that  day  what  it  could  be  once 
in  each  year  to  every  person  who  came  to 
it,  a  breath  of  new  life  and  the  strength  and 
joy  of  youth.  With  slow  steps  she  advanced 
towards  the  arch  of  the  quickens.  Her  heart 
beat  as  she  saw  that  the  branches  at  the 
summit  had  formed  themselves  into  the 
shape  of  a  wreath  or  crown,  and  that  the 
scarlet  berries  dropped  therefrom  a  steady 
rain  of  red  drops  as  of  blood.  A  sigh  of  joy 
breathed  from  her  lips  when,  deep  among  the 
red  and  green,  she  saw  the  white  merle  of 
which  the  ancient  poets  sang,  and  heard  the 
exceeding  wonder  of  its  rapture,  which  was 
now  the  pain  of  joy  and  now  the  joy  of  pain. 

67 


Muime  Chriosd 

The  song  of  the  mystic  bird  grew  wilder 
and  more  sweet  as  she  drew  near.  For  a 
brief  while  she  hesitated.  Then,  as  a  white 
dove  drifted  slow  before  her  under  and 
through  the  quicken-boughs,  a  dove  white 
as  snow  but  radiant  with  sunfire,  she  moved 
forward  to  follow,  with  a  dream- smile  upon 
her  face  and  her  eyes  full  of  the  sheen  of 
wonder  and  mystery,  as  shadowy  waters 
flooded  with  moonshine. 

And  this  was  the  passing  of  Bride,  who 
was  not  seen  again  of  Duvach  or  her  foster- 
brothers  for  the  space  of  a  year  and  a  day. 
Only  Cathal,  the  aged  Arch-Druid,  who  died 
seven  days  thence,  had  a  vision  of  her,  and 
wept  for  joy. 


Ill 


When  the  strain  of  the  white  merle  ceased, 
though  it  had  seemed  to  her  scarce  longer 
than  the  vanishing  song  of  the  swallow  on 
the  wing,  Bride  saw  that  the  evening  was 
come.  Through  the  violet  glooms  of  dusk 
she  moved  soundlessly,  save  for  the  crispling 
of  her  feet  among  the  hot  sands.  Far  as 
68 


Muime  Chriosd 

she  could  see  to  right  or  left  there  were  hol- 
lows and  ridges  of  sand;  where,  here  and 
there,  trees  or  shrubs  grew  out  of  the  parched 
soil,  they  were  strange  to  her.  She  had 
heard  the  Druids  speak  of  the  sunlands  in 
a  remote,  nigh  unreachable  East,  where  there 
were  trees  called  palms,  trees  in  a  perpetual 
sunflood  yet  that  perished  not,  also  tall  dark 
cypresses,  black-green  as  the  holy  yew. 
These  were  the  trees  she  now  saw.  Did 
she  dream,  she  wondered?  Far  down  in 
her  mind  was  some  memory,  some  floating 
vision  only,  mayhap,  of  a  small  green  isle 
far  among  the  northern  seas.  Voices,  words, 
faces,  familiar  yet  unfamiliar  when  she  strove 
to  bring  them  near,  haunted  her. 

The  heat  brooded  upon  the  land.  The 
sigh  of  the  parched  earth  was  "  Water, 
water." 

As  she  moved  onward  through  the  gloam- 
ing she  descried  white  walls  beyond  her : 
white  walls  and  square  white  buildings,  loom- 
ing ghostly  through  the  dark,  yet  home-sweet 
as  the  bells  of  the  cows  on  the  sea-pastures, 
because  of  the  yellow  lights  every  here  and 
there  agleam. 

69 


Muime  Chriosd 

A  tall  figure  moved  towards  her,  clad  in 
white,  even  as  those  figures  which  haunted 
her  unremembering  memory.  When  he 
drew  near  she  gave  a  low  cry  of  joy.  The 
face  of  her  father  was  sweet  to  her. 

"  Where  will  be  the  pitcher,  Brighid?  "  he 
said,  though  the  words  were  not  the  words 
that  were  near  her  when  she  was  alone. 
Nevertheless  she  knew  them,  and  the  same 
manner  of  words  was  upon  her  lips. 

"My  pitcher,  father?" 

"Ah,  dreamer,  when  will  you  be  taking 
heed  !  It  is  leaving  your  pitcher  you  will 
be,  and  by  the  Well  of  the  Camels,  no  doubt : 
though  little  matter  will  that  be,  since  there 
is  now  no  water,  and  the  drought  is  heavy 
upon  the  land.     But  .  .  .  Brighid  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  my  father?" 

"  Sure  now  it  is  not  safe  for  you  to  be  on 
the  desert  at  night.  Wild  beasts  come  out  of 
the  darkness,  and  there  are  robbers  and  wild 
men  who  lurk  in  the  shadow,  Brighid  .  .  . 
Brighid  ...  is  it  dreaming  you  are  still?" 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  a  cool  green  isle  in 
northern  seas,  where  ..." 

"  Where  you  have  never  been,  foolish  lass, 
70 


Muime  Chriosd 

and  are  never  like  to  be.  Sure,  if  any  way- 
farer were  to  come  upon  us  you  would  scarce 
be  able  to  tell  him  that  yonder  village  is 
Bethlehem,  and  that  I  am  Dughall  Donn  the 
inn-keeper,  Dughall  the  son  of  Hugh,  son  of 
Art,  son  of  Conn.  Well,  well,  I  am  growing 
old,  and  they  say  that  the  old  see  wonders. 
But  1  do  not  wish  to  see  this  wonder,  that 
my  daughter  Brighid  forgets  her  own  town, 
and  the  good  inn  that  is  there,  and  the  strong 
sv/eet  ale  that  is  cool  against  the  thirst  of  the 
weary.  Sure,  if  the  day  of  my  days  is  near 
it  is  near.  '  Green  be  the  place  of  my  rest,' 
I  cry,  even  as  Oisin  the  son  of  Fionn  of  the 
hero-line  of  Trenmor  cried  in  his  old  age ; 
though  if  Oisin  and  the  Fiann  were  here  not 
a  green  place  would  they  find  now,  for  the 
land  is  burned  dry  as  the  heather  after  a 
hill-fire.  But  now,  Brighid,  let  us  go  back 
into  Bethlehem,  for  I  have  that  for  the  saying 
which  must  be  said  at  once." 

In  silence  the  twain  walked  through  the 
gloaming  that  was  already  the  mirk,  till  they 
came  to  the  white  gate,  where  the  asses  and 
camels  breathed  wearily  in  the  sultry  dark- 
ness, with  dry  tongues  moving  round  parched 
71 


Muime  Chriosd 

mouths.  Thence  they  fared  through  narrow 
streets,  where  a  few  white-robed  Hebrews 
and  sons  of  the  desert  moved  silently,  or  sat 
in  niches.  Finally,  they  came  to  a  great  yard, 
where  more  than  a  score  of  camels  lay  hud- 
dled and  growling  in  their  sleep.  Beyond 
this  was  the  inn,  which  was  known  to  all  the 
patrons  and  friends  of  Dughall  Donn  as  the 
"  Rest  and  Be  Thankful,"  though  formerly 
as  the  Rest  of  Clan-Ailpean,  for  was  he  not 
himself  through  his  mother  MacAlpine  of 
the  Isles,  as  well  as  blood-kin  to  the  great 
Carmac  the  Ard-Righ,  to  whom  his  father, 
Hugh,  was  feudatory  prince  ? 

As  Dughall  and  Bride  walked  along  the 
stone  flags  of  a  passage  leading  to  the  inner 
rooms,  he  stopped  and  drew  her  attention 
to  the  water-tanks. 

"  Look  you,  my  lass,"  he  said  sorrowfully, 
"of  these  tanks  and  barrels  nearly  all  are 
empty.  Soon  there  will  be  no  water  what- 
ever, which  is  an  evil  thing  though  I  whisper 
it  in  peace,  to  the  Stones  be  it  said.  Now, 
already  the  folk  who  come  here  murmur. 
No  man  can  drink  ale  all  day  long,  and  those 
wayfarers  who  want  to  wash  the  dust  of 
72 


Muime   Chriosd 

their  journey  from  their  feet  and  hands  com- 
plain bitterly.  And  .  .  .  what  is  that  you 
will  be  saying?  The  kye?  Ay,  sure,  there 
is  the  kye,  but  the  poor  beasts  are  o'ercome 
with  the  heat,  and  there  's  not  a  Cailliach  on 
the  hills  who  could  win  a  drop  more  of  milk 
from  them  than  we  squeeze  out  of  their  udders 
now,  and  that  only  with  rune  after  rune  till  all 
the  throats  of  the  milking  lassies  are  as  dry 
as  the  salt  grass  by  the  sea. 

"  Well,  what  I  am  saying  is  this :  't  is 
months  now  since  any  rain  will  be  falling, 
and  every  crock  of  water  has  been  for  the 
treasuring  as  though  it  had  been  the  honey 
of  Moy-Mell  itself.  The  moon  has  been  full 
twice  since  we  had  the  good  water  brought 
from  the  mountain-springs ;  and  now  they  are 
for  drying  up  too.  The  seers  say  that  the 
drought  will  last.  If  that  is  a  true  word,  and 
there  be  no  rain  till  the  winter  comes,  there 
will  be  no  inn  in  Bethlehem  called  *  The 
Rest  and  Be  Thankful ; '  for  already  there  is 
not  enough  good  water  to  give  peace  even 
to  your  little  thirst,  my  birdeen.  As  for  the 
ale,  it  is  poor  drink  now  for  man  or  maid, 
and  as  for  the  camels  and  asses,  poor 
73 


Muime  Chriosd 

beasts,  they  don't  understand  the  drinking 
of  it." 

"  That  is  true,  father ;  but  what  is  to  be 
done?" 

^'  That 's  what  I  will  be  telling  you,  my 
lintie.  Now,  I  have  been  told  by  an  oganach 
out  of  Jerusalem,  that  lives  in  another  place 
close  by  the  great  town,  that  there  is  a 
quenchless  well  of  pure  water,  cold  as  the 
sea  with  a  north  wind  in  it,  on  a  hill  there 
called  the  Mount  of  Olives.  Now,  it  is  to 
that  hill  I  will  be  going.  I  am  for  taking  all 
the  camels,  and  all  the  horses,  and  all  the 
asses,  and  will  lade  each  with  a  burthen  of 
water-skins,  and  come  back  home  again  with 
water  enough  to  last  us  till  the  drought 
breaks." 

That  was  all  that  was  said  that  night.  But 
at  the  dawn  the  inn  was  busy,  and  all  the 
folk  in  Bethlehem  were  up  to  see  .the  going 
abroad  of  Dughall  Donn  and  Ronald  M'lan, 
his  shepherd,  and  some  Macleans  and  Mac- 
callams  that  were  then  in  that  place.  It  was 
a  fair  sight  to  see  as  they  went  forth  through 
the  white  gate  that  is  called  the  Gate  of 
Nazareth.  A  piper  walked  first,  playing  the 
74 


Muime  Chriosd 

Gathering  of  the  Swords  :  then  came  Dughall 
Donn  on  a  camel,  and  M'lan  on  a  horse,  and 
the  herdsmen  on  asses,  and  then  there  were 
the  colhes  barking  for  joy. 

Before  he  had  gone,  Dughall  took  Bride 
out  of  the  hearing  of  the  others.  There  was 
only  a  little  stagnant  water,  he  said ;  and  as 
for  the  ale,  there  was  no  more  than  a  flagon 
left  of  what  was  good.  This  flagon,  and 
the  one  jar  of  pure  water,  he  left  with  her. 
On  no  account  was  she  to  give  a  drop  to  any 
wayfarer,  no  matter  how  urgent  he  might  be  ; 
for  he,  Dughall,  could  not  say  when  he  would 
get  back,  and  he  did  not  want  to  find  a  dead 
daughter  to  greet  him  on  his  return,  let  alone 
there  being  no  maid  of  the  inn  to  attend  to 
customers.  Over  and  above  that,  he  made 
her  take  an  oath  that  she  would  give  no  one, 
no,  not  even  a  stranger,  accommodation  at 
the  inn,  during  his  absence. 

Afternoon  and  night  came,  and  dawn  and 
night  again,  and  yet  again.  It  was  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  third  day,  when  even  the 
crickets  were  dying  of  thirst,  that  Bride  heard 
a  clanging  at  the  door  of  the  inn. 

When  she  went  to  the  door  she  saw  a 
IS 


Muime  Chriosd 

weary  gray-haired  man,  dusty  and  tired.  By 
his  side  was  an  ass  with  drooping  head,  and 
on  the  ass  was  a  woman,  young,  and  of  a 
beauty  that  was  as  the  cool  shadow  of  green 
leaves  and  the  cold  ripple  of  running  waters. 
But  beautiful  as  she  was,  it  was  not  this  that 
made  Bride  start :  no,  nor  the  heavy  womb 
that  showed  the  woman  was  with  child.  For 
she  remembered  her  of  a  dream  —  it  was  a 
dream,  sure  —  when  she  had  looked  into  a 
pool  on  a  mountain-side,  and  seen,  beyond 
her  own  image,  just  this  fair  and  beautiful 
face,  the  most  beautiful  that  ever  man  saw 
since  Nais,  of  the  Sons  of  Usna,  beheld 
Deirdre  in  the  forest,  —  ay,  and  lovelier  far 
even  than  she,  the  peerless  among  women. 

"  Gu'm  beannaicheadh  Dia  an  tigh,"  said 
the  gray-haired  man  in  a  weary  voice,  "  the 
blessing  of  God  on  this  house." 

"  Soraidh  leat,"  repUed  Bride  gently, "  and 
upon  you  likewise." 

**  Can  you  give  us  food  and  drink,  and,  after 
that,  good  rest  at  this  inn  ?  Sure  it  is  grate- 
ful we  will  be.  This  is  my  wife  Mary,  upon 
whom  is  a  mystery :  and  I  am  Joseph,  a 
carpenter  in  Arimathea." 
76 


Muime  Chriosd 

"  Welcome,  and  to  you,  too,  Mary :  and 
peace.  But  there  is  neither  food  nor  drink 
here,  and  my  father  has  bidden  me  give 
shelter  to  none  who  comes  here  against  his 
return." 

The  carpenter  sighed,  but  the  fair  woman 
on  the  ass  turned  her  shadowy  eyes  upon 
Bride,  so  that  the  maiden  trembled  with  joy 
and  fear. 

"  And  is  it  forgetting  me  you  will  be, 
Brighid-Alona,"  she  murmured,  in  the  good 
sweet  Gaelic  of  the  Isles,  and  the  voice  of  her 
was  like  the  rustle  of  leaves  when  a  soft  rain 
is  falling  in  a  wood. 

"  Sure,  I  remember," Bride  whispered,  filled 
with  deep  awe.  Then  without  a  word  she 
turned,  and  beckoned  them  to  follow  :  which, 
having  left  the  ass  by  the  doorway,  they  did. 

"  Here  is  all  the  ale  that  I  have,"  she  said, 
as  she  gave  the  flagon  to  Joseph  :  "  and  here, 
Mary,  is  all  the  water  that  there  is.  Little 
there  is,  but  it  is  you  that  are  welcome  to  it." 

Then,  when  they  had  quenched  their  thirst 
she   brought   out  oatcakes  and  scones  and 
brown  bread,  and    would    fain  have  added 
milk,  but  there  was  none. 
77 


Muime  Chriosd 

*^  Go  to  the  byre,   Brighid,"  said  Mary, 
"and  the  first  of  the  kye  shall  give  milk." 

So  Bride  went,  but  returned  saying  that 
the  creature  would  not  give  milk  without  a 
sian  or  song,  and  that  her  throat  was  too  dry 
to  sing. 

*^  Say  this  sian^^^  said  Mary  :  — 

Give  up  thy  milk  to  her  who  calls 
Across  the  low  green  hills  of  Heaven 
And  stream-cool  meads  of  Paradise  ! 

And  sure  enough,  when  Bride  did  this,  the 
milk  came  :  and  she  soothed  her  thirst,  and 
went  back  to  her  guests  rejoicing.  It  was 
sorrow  to  her  not  to  let  them  stay  where  they 
were,  but  she  could  not,  because  of  her  oath. 

The  man  Joseph  was  weary,  and  said  he 
was  too  tired  to  seek  far  that  night,  and 
asked  if  there  was  no  empty  byre  or  stable 
where  he  and  Mary  could  sleep  till  morning. 
At  that,  Bride  was  glad  :  for  she  knew  there 
was  a  clean  cool  stable  close  to  the  byre 
where  her  kye  were  :  and  thereto  she  led 
them,  and  returned  with  peace  at  her  heart. 

When  she  was  in  the  inn  again,  she  was 
afraid  once  more :  for  lo,  though  Mary  and 
78 


Mulme  Chriosd 

Joseph  had  drunken  deep  of  the  jar  and  the 
flagon,  each  was  now  full  as  it  had  been. 
Of  the  food,  too,  none  seemed  to  have  been 
taken,  though  she  had  herself  seen  them 
break  the  scones  and  the  oatcakes. 

It  was  dusk  when  her  reverie  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  the  pipes.  Soon  thereafter 
Dughall  Donn  and  his  following  rode  up  to 
the  inn,  and  all  were  glad  because  of  the  cool 
water,  and  the  grapes,  and  the  green  fruits  of 
the  earth,  that  they  brought  with  them. 

While  her  father  was  eating  and  drinking, 
merry  because  of  the  ale  that  was  still  in  the 
flagon,  Bride  told  him  of  the  wayfarers.  Even 
as  she  spoke,  he  made  a  sign  of  silence,  be- 
cause of  a  strange,  unwonted  sound  that  he 
heard. 

"What  will  that  be  meaning?"  he  asked, 
in  a  low,  hushed  voice. 

"  Sure  it  is  the  rain  at  last,  father.  That  is 
a  glad  thing.  The  earth  will  be  green  again. 
The  beasts  will  not  perish.  Hark,  I  hear  the 
noise  of  it  coming  down  from  the  hills  as 
well."     But  Dughall  sat  brooding. 

"Aye,"  he  said  at  last,  "is  it  not  foretold 
that  the  Prince  of  the  World  is  to  be  born  in 
79 


Muime  Chriosd 

this  land,  during  a  heavy  falling  of  rain,  after 
a  long  drought?  And  who  is  for  knowing 
that  Bethlehem  is  not  the  place,  and  that  this 
is  not  the  night  of  the  day  of  the  days? 
Brighid,  Brighid,  the  woman  Mary  must  be 
the  mother  of  the  Prince,  who  is  to  save 
all  mankind  out  of  evil  and  pain  and 
death  ! " 

And  with  that  he  rose  and  beckoned  to 
her  to  follow.  They  took  a  lantern,  and 
made  their  way  through  the  drowsing  camels 
and  asses  and  horses,  and  past  the  byres 
where  the  kye  lowed  gently,  and  so  to  the 
stable. 

"  Sure  that  is  a  bright  light  they  are  having," 
Dughall  muttered  uneasily  :  for,  truly,  it  was 
as  though  the  shed  were  a  shell  filled  with 
the  fires  of  sunrise. 

Lightly  they  pushed  back  the  door. 
When  they  saw  what  they  saw  they  fell  upon 
their  knees.  Mary  sat  with  her  heavenly 
beauty  upon  her  like  sunshine  on  a  dusk 
land :  in  her  lap,  a  Babe  laughing  sweet 
and  low. 

Never  had  they  seen  a  Child  so  fair.     He 
was  as  though  wrought  of  light. 
80 


Muime  Chriosd 

**Who  is  it?"  murmured  Dughall  Donn, 
of  Joseph,  who  stood  near,  with  rapt  eyes. 

"  It  is  the  Prince  of  Peace." 

And  with  that  Mary  smiled,  and  the  Child 
slept. 

'*  Brighid,  my  sister  dear"  —  and,  as  she 
whispered  this,  Mary  held  the  little  one  to 
Bride. 

The  fair  girl  took  the  Babe  in  her  arms, 
and  covered  it  with  her  mantle.  Therefore 
it  is  that  she  is  known  to  this  day  as  Brighde- 
nam-Brat,  St.  Bride  of  the  Mantle. 

And  all  through  that  night,  while  the 
mother  slept.  Bride  nursed  the  Child,  with 
tender  hands  and  croodling  crooning  songs. 
And  this  was  one  of  the  songs  that  she  sang  : 

Ah,  Baby  Christ,  so  dear  to  me^ 

Sang  Bridget  Bride  : 
How  sweet  thou  art, 
My  baby  dear, 
Heart  of  my  heart ! 

Heavy  her  body  was  with  thee, 
Mary,  beloved  of  One  in  Three, 

Sang  Bridget  Bride  — 
Mary,  who  bore  thee,  little  lad  : 
But  light  her  heart  was,  light  and  glad 
With  God's  love  clad. 
6  8i 


Muime  Chriosd 

Sit  on  my  knee, 

Sang  Bridget  Bride : 
Sit  here 
O  Baby  dear. 

Close  to  my  heart,  my  heart 
For  I  thy  foster-mother  am, 
My  helpless  lamb  1 
O  have  no  fear. 

Sang  good  St.  Bride. 

None,  none, 
No  fear  have  I : 
So  let  me  cling 
Close  to  thy  side 
Whilst  thou  dost  sing, 
O  Bridget  Bride  ! 

My  Lord,  my  Prince  I  sing: 
My  baby  dear,  my  King  I 
Sang  Bridget  Bride. 


It  was  on  this  night  that,  far  away  in  lona, 
the  Arch-Druid  Cathal  died.  But  before  the 
breath  went  from  him  he  had  his  vision  of 
joy,  and  his  last  words  were  : 

Brighde  'dol  air  a  glim, 
Righ  nan  dul  a  shuidh  'na  h-uchd ! 
(Bridget  Bride  upon  her  knee, 
The  King  of  the  Elements  asleep  on  her  breast ! ) 
82 


Muime  Chriosd 

At  the  coming  of  dawn  Mary  awoke,  and 
took  the  Child.  She  kissed  Bride  upon  the 
brows,  and  said  this  thing  to  her :  "  Brighid, 
my  sister  dear,  thou  shalt  be  known  unto  all 
time  as  Muime  Chriosd." 


IV 


No  sooner  had  Mary  spoken  than  Bride 
fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  So  profound  was  this 
slumber  that  when  Dughall  Donn  came  to 
see  to  the  wayfarers,  and  to  tell  them  that 
the  milk  and  the  porridge  were  ready  for  the 
breaking  of  their  fast,  he  could  get  no  word 
of  her  at  all.  She  lay  in  the  clean,  yellow 
straw  beneath  the  manger,  where  Mary  had 
laid  the  Child.  Dughall  stared  in  amaze. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  mother,  nor  of  the 
Babe  that  was  the  Prince  of  Peace,  nor  of 
the  douce,  quiet  man  that  was  Joseph  the 
carpenter.  As  for  Bride,  she  not  only  slept 
so  sound  that  no  word  of  his  fell  against  her 
ears,  but  she  gave  him  awe.  For  as  he 
looked  at  her  he  saw  that  she  was  surrounded 
by  a  glowing  hght.     Something  in  his  heart 

83 


Muime  Chriosd 

shaped  itself  into  a  prayer,  and  he  knelt 
beside  her,  sobbing  low.  When  he  rose,  it 
was  in  peace.  Mayhap  an  angel  had  com- 
forted his  soul  in  its  dark  shadowy  haunt  of 
his  body. 

It  was  late  when  Bride  awoke,  though  she 
did  not  open  her  eyes,  but  lay  dreaming. 
For  long  she  thought  she  was  in  Tir-Tairn- 
gire,  the  Land  of  Promise,  or  wandering  on 
the  honey-sweet  plain  of  Magh-Mell ;  for  the 
wind  of  dreamland  brought  exquisite  odours 
to  her,  and  in  her  ears  was  a  most  marvel- 
lous sweet  singing. 

All  round  her  there  was  a  music  of  rejoi- 
cing. Voices,  lovelier  than  any  she  had  ever 
heard,  resounded ;  glad  voices  full  of  praise 
and  joy.  There  was  a  pleasant  tumult  of 
harps  and  trumpets,  and  as  from  across  blue 
hills  and  over  calm  water  came  the  sound  of 
the  bagpipes.  She  listened  with  tears.  Loud 
and  glad  were  the  pipes,  at  times  full  of 
triumph,  as  when  the  heroes  of  old  marched 
with  Cuculain  or  went  down  to  battle  with 
Fionn :  again,  they  were  low  and  sweet,  like 
humming  of  bees  when  the  heather  is  heavy 
with  the  honey-ooze.  The  songs  and  wild 
84 


Muime  Chriosd 

music  of  the  angels  lulled  her  into  peace  : 
for  a  time  no  thought  of  the  woman  Mary 
came  to  her,  nor  of  the  Child  that  was  her 
foster-child. 

Suddenly  it  was  in  her  mind  as  though  the 
pipes  played  the  chant  that  is  called  the 
'*  Aoibhneas  a  Shlighe,"  "  the  joy  of  his  way," 
a  march  played  before  a  bridegroom  going 
to  his  bride.  Out  of  this  glad  music  came  a 
sohtary  voice,  like  a  child  singing  on  the 
hillside. 

*'The  way  of  wonder  shall  be  thine,  O 
Brighid-Naomha  !  " 

This  was  what  the  child-voice  sang.  Then 
it  was  as  though  all  the  harpers  of  the  west 
were  playing  "  air  clarsach  "  :  and  the  song 
of  a  multitude  of  voices  was  this  : 

"  Blessed  art  thou,  O  Brighid,  who  nursed 
the  King  of  the  Elements  in  thy  bosom : 
blessed  thou,  the  Virgin  Sister  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  for  unto  all  time  thou  shalt  be  called 
Muime  Chriosd,  the  Foster-Mother  of  Jesus 
that  is  the  Christ." 

With  that.  Bride  remembered  all,  and 
opened  her  eyes.  Naught  strange  was  there 
to  see,  save  that  she  lay  in  the  stable.    Then 

85 


Muime  Chriosd 

as  she  noted  that  the  gloaming  had  come, 
she  wondered  at  the  soft  Ught  that  prevailed 
in  the  shed,  though  no  lamp  or  candle 
burned  there.  In  her  ears,  too,  still  lingered 
a  wild  and  beautiful  music. 

It  was  strange.  Was  it  all  a  dream,  she 
pondered.  But  even  as  she  thought  ^  thus, 
she  saw  half  of  her  mantle  lying  upon  the 
straw  in  the  manger.  Much  she  marvelled 
at  this,  but  when  she  took  the  garment  in 
her  hand  she  wondered  more.  For  though  it 
was  no  more  than  a  half  of  the  poor  mantle 
wherewith  she  had  wrapped  the  Babe,  it  was 
all  wrought  with  mystic  gold  lines  and  with 
precious  stones  more  glorious  than  ever  Arch- 
Druid  or  Island  Prince  had  seen.  The 
marvel  gave  her  awe  at  last,  when,  as  she 
placed  the  garment  upon  her  shoulder,  it 
covered  her  completely. 

She  knew  now  that  she  had  not  dreamed, 
and  that  a  miracle  was  done.  So  with  glad- 
ness she  went  out  of  the  stable,  and  into  the 
inn.  Dughall  Donn  was  amazed  when  he 
saw  her,  and  then  rejoiced  exceedingly. 

*'  Why  are  you  so  merry,  my  father?  "  she 
asked. 

86 


Muime  Chriosd 

"  Sure  it  is  glad  that  I  am.  For  now  the 
folk  will  be  laughing  the  wrong  way.  This 
very  morning  I  was  so  pleased  with  the 
pleasure,  that  while  the  pot  was  boiling  on 
the  peats  I  went  out  and  told  every  one  I 
met  that  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  come,  and 
had  just  been  born  in  the  stable  behind  the 

*  Rest  and  Be  Thankful.'  Well,  that  saying 
was  just  like  a  weasel  among  the  rabbits, 
only  it  was  an  old  toothless  weasel :  for  all 
Bethlehem  mocked  me,  some  with  jeers, 
some  with  hard  words,  and  some  with 
threats.  Sure,  I  cursed  them  right  and  left. 
No,  not  for  all  my  cursing  —  and  by  the 
blood  of  my  fathers,  I  spared  no  man  among 
them,  wishing  them  sword  and  fire,  the  black 
plague  and  the  gray  death  —  would  they  be- 
lieve. So  back  it  was  that  I  came,  and  going 
through  the  inn  I   am  come  to  the  stable. 

*  Sorrow  is  on  me  like  a  gray  mist,'  said 
Oisin,  mourning  for  Oscur,  and  sure  it  was 
a  gray  mist  that  was  on  me  when  not  a  sign 
of  man,  woman,  or  child  was  to  be  seen,  and 
you  so  sound  asleep  that  a  March  gale  in  the 
Moyle  would  n't  have  roused  you.  Well,  I 
went  back  and  told  this  thing,  and  all  the 

87 


Muime  Chriosd 

people  in  Bethlehem  mocked  at  me.  And 
the  Elders  of  the  People  came  at  last,  and 
put  a  fine  upon  me  :  and  condemned  me  to 
pay  three  barrels  of  good  ale,  and  a  sack  of 
meal,  and  three  thin  chains  of  gold,  each 
three  yards  long  :  and  this  for  causing  a  false 
rumour,  and  still  more  for  making  a  laughing- 
stock of  the  good  folk  of  Bethlehem.  There 
was  a  man  called  Murdoch- Dhu,  who  is  the 
chief  smith  in  Nazareth,  and  it 's  him  I  'm 
thinking  will  have  laughed  the  Elders  into 
doing  this  hard  thing." 

It  was  then  that  Bride  was  aware  of  a 
marvel  upon  her,  for  she  blew  an  incantation 
off  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  by  that  frith 
she  knew  where  the  dues  were  to  be  found. 

"  By  what  I  see  in  the  air  that  is  blown  off 
the  palm  of  my  hand,  father,  I  bid  you  go 
into  the  cellar  of  the  inn.  There  you  will 
find  three  barrels  full  of  good  ale,  and  beside 
them  a  sack  of  meal,  and  the  sack  is  tied 
with  three  chains  of  gold,  each  three  yards 
long." 

But  while  Dughall  Donn  went  away  rejoic- 
ing, and  found  that  which  Bride  had  fore- 
told, she  passed  out  into  the  street.  None 
88 


Mulme  Chriosd 

saw  her  in  the  gloaming,  or  as  she  went 
towards  the  Gate  of  the  East.  When  she 
passed  by  the  Lazar-house  she  took  her 
mantle  off  her  back  and  laid  it  in  the  place 
of  offerings.  All  the  jewels  and  fine  gold 
passed  into  invisible  birds  with  healing  wings  : 
and  these  birds  flew  about  the  heads  of  the 
sick  all  night,  so  that  at  dawn  every  one 
arose,  with  no  ill  upon  him,  and  went  on  his 
way  rejoicing.  As  each  went  out  of  Bethle- 
hem that  morning  of  the  mornings  he  found 
a  clean  white  robe  and  new  sandals  at  the 
first  mile  ;  and,  at  the  second,  food  and  cool 
water ;  and,  at  the  third,  a  gold  piece  and  a 
staff. 

The  guard  that  was  at  the  Eastern  Gate 
did  not  hail  Bride.  All  the  gaze  of  him  was 
upon  a  company  of  strange  men,  shepherd- 
kings,  who  said  they  had  come  out  of  the 
East  led  by  a  star.  They  carried  rare  gifts 
with  them  when  they  first  came  to  Bethlehem  : 
but  no  man  knew  whence  they  came,  what 
they  wanted,  or  whither  they  went. 

For  a  time  Bride  walked  along  the  road 
that  leads  to  Nazareth.  There  was  fear  in 
her  gentle  heart  when  she  heard  the  howling 


Muime  Chriosd 

of  hyenas  down  in  the  dark  hollows,  and  she 
was  glad  when  the  moon  came  out  and  shone 
quietly  upon  her. 

In  the  moonlight  she  saw  that  there  were 
steps  in  the  dew  before  her.  She  could  see 
the  black  print  of  feet  in  the  silver  sheen  on 
the  wet  grass,  for  it  was  on  a  grassy  hill  that 
she  now  walked,  though  a  day  ago  every  leaf 
and  sheath  there  had  lain  brown  and  withered. 
The  footprints  she  followed  were  those  of  a 
woman  and  of  a  child. 

All  night  through  she  tracked  those  wander- 
ing feet  in  the  dew.  They  were  always  fresh 
before  her,  and  led  her  away  from  the  villages, 
and  also  where  no  wild  beasts  prowled  through 
the  gloom.  There  was  no  weariness  upon 
her,  though  often  she  wondered  when  she 
should  see  the  fair  wondrous  face  she  sought. 
Behind  her  also  were  footsteps  in  the  dew, 
though  she  knew  nothing  of  them.  They 
were  those  of  the  Following  Love.  And  this 
was  the  Lorgadh-Brighde  of  which  men 
speak  to  this  day  :  the  Quest  of  the  holy  St. 
Bride. 

All  night  she  walked  ;  now  upon  the  high 
slopes  of  a  hill.  Never  once  did  she  have  a 
90 


Mulme  Chriosd 

glimpse  of  any  figure  in  the  moonlight,  though 
the  steps  in  the  dew  before  her  were  newly 
made,  and  none  lay  in  the  glisten  a  short  way 
ahead. 

Suddenly  she  stopped.  There  were  no 
more  footprints.  Eagerly  she  looked  before 
her.  On  a  hill  beyond  the  valley  beneath 
her  she  saw  the  gleaming  of  yellow  stars. 
These  were  the  lights  of  a  city.  "  Behold,  it 
is  Jerusalem,"  she  murmured,  awe-struck,  for 
she  had  never  seen  the  great  town. 

Sweet  was  the  breath  of  the  wind  that 
stirred  among  the  olives  on  the  mount  where 
she  stood.  It  had  the  smell  of  heather,  and 
she  could  hear  the  rustle  of  it  among  the 
bracken  on  a  hill  close  by. 

"  Truly,  this  must  be  the  Mount  of  Olives," 
she  whispered,  "  The  Mount  of  which  I  have 
heard  my  father  speak,  and  that  must  be  the 
hill  called  Calvary." 

But  even  as  she  gazed  marvelling,  she 
sighed  with  new  wonder ;  for  now  she  saw 
that  the  yellow  stars  were  as  the  twinkling  of 
the  fires  of  the  sun  along  the  crest  of  a  hill 
that  is  set  in  the  east.  There  was  a  liv- 
ing joy  in  the  dawntide.  In  her  ears  was  a 
91 


Muime  Chriosd 

sweet  sound  of  the  bleating  of  ewes  and  lambs. 
From  the  hollows  in  the  shadows  came  the 
swift  singing  rush  of  the  flowing  tide.  Faint 
cries  of  the  herring  gulls  filled  the  air ;  from 
the  weedy  boulders  by  the  sea  the  skuas 
called  wailingly. 

Bewildered,  she  stood  intent.  If  only  she 
could  see  the  footprints  again,  she  thought. 
Whither  should  she  turn,  whither  go?  At 
her  feet  was  a  yellow  flower.  She  stooped 
and  plucked  it. 

"  Tell  me,  O  little  sun-flower,  which  way 
shall  I  be  going?  "  and  as  she  spoke  a  small 
golden  bee  flew  up  from  the  heart  of  it,  and 
up  the  hill  to  the  left  of  her.  So  it  is  that 
from  that  day  the  dandelion  is  called  am- 
Bearnan-Bhrighde. 

Still  she  hesitated.  Then  a  sea-bird  flew 
by  her  with  a  loud  whistling  cry. 

"  Tell  me,  O  eisireun,"  she  called,  "  which 
way  shall  I  be  going?  " 

And  at  this  the  eisireun  swerved  in  its 
flight,  and  followed  the  golden  bee,  crying, 
"This  way,  O  Bride,  Bride,  Bride,  Bride, 
Bri-i-i-ide  !  " 

So  it  is  that  from  that  day  the  oyster- 
92 


Muime  Chriosd 

catcher  has  been  called  the   Gille-Brighde, 
the  Servant  of  St.  Bridget. 

Then  it  was  that  Bride  said  this  sian : 

Diaromham; 

Moire  am  dheaghuidh ; 

'S  am  Mac  a  thug  Righ  nan  Dul  I 

Mis'  air  do  shlios,  a  Dhia, 

Is  Dia  ma'm  luirg. 

Mac'  'oire,  a's  Righ  nan  Dul, 

A  shoillseachadh  gach  ni  dheth  so, 

Le  a  ghras,  mu'm  choinneamh. 

God  before  me ; 

The  Virgin  Mary  after  me  ; 

And  the  Son  sent  by  the  King  of  the  Elements. 

I  am  to  windward  of  thee,  O  God  ! 

And  God  on  my  footsteps. 

May  the  Son  of  Mary,  King  of  the  Elements, 

Reveal  the  meaning  of  each  of  these  things 

Before  me,  through  His  grace. 


And  as  she  ended  she  saw  before  her  two 
quicken-trees,  of  which  the  boughs  were  in- 
terwrought  so  that  they  made  an  arch. 
Deep  in  the  green  foliage  was  a  white  merle 
that  sang  a  wondrous  sweet  song.  Above  it 
the  small  branches  were  twisted  into  the 
shape  of  a  wreath  or  crown,  lovely  with  the 
93 


Muime  Chriosd 

sunlit  rowan-clusters,  from  whose  scarlet  ber- 
ries red  drops  as  of  blood  fell. 

Before  her  flew  a  white  dove,  all  aglow  as 
with  golden  light. 

She  followed,  and  passed  beneath  the 
quicken  arch. 

Sweet  was  the  song  of  the  merle,  that  was 
then  no  more ;  sweet  the  green  shadow  of 
the  rowans,  that  now  grew  straight  as  young 
pines.  Sweet  the  far  song  in  the  sky,  where 
the  white  dove  flew  against  the  sun. 

Bride  looked,  and  her  eyes  were  glad. 
Bonnie  the  blooming  of  the  heather  on  the 
slopes  of  Dun-I.  lona  lay  green  and  gold, 
isled  in  her  blue  waters.  From  the  shelling 
of  Duvach,  her  father,  rose  a  thin  column  of 
pale  blue  smoke.  The  collies,  seeing  her, 
barked  loudly  with  welcoming  joy. 

The  bleating  of  the  sheep,  the  lowing  of 
the  kye,  the  breath  of  the  salt  wind  from  the 
open  sea  beyond,  the  song  of  the  flowing 
tide  in  the  Sound  beneath  :  dear  the  homing. 

With  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes  she  moved 
down  through  the  heather  and  among  the 
green  bracken  :  white,  wonderful,  fair  to  see. 


94 


THE    FISHER    OF    MEN 


95 


"  But  now  I  have  grown  nothing,  being  all, 
And  the  whole  world  weighs  down  upon  my  heart." 
Fergus  and  the  Druid. 


96 


THE   FISHER   OF   MEN 

WHEN  old  Sine  nic  Leoid  came  back 
to  the  croft,  after  she  had  been  to 
the  burn  at  the  edge  of  the  green  airidh, 
where  she  had  washed  the  claar  that  was  for 
the  potatoes  at  the  peeHng,  she  sat  down 
before  the  peats. 

She  was  white  with  years.  The  mountain 
wind  was  chill,  too,  for  all  that  the  sun 
had  shone  throughout  the  midsummer  day. 
It  was  well  to  sit  before  the  peat-fire. 

The  croft  was  on  the  slope  of  a  mountain, 
and  had  the  south  upon  it.  North,  south, 
east,  and  west,  other  great  slopes  reached 
upward,  like  hollow  green  waves  frozen  into 
silence  by  the  very  wind  that  curved  them  so, 
and  freaked  their  crests  into  peaks  and  jagged 
pinnacles.  Stillness  was  in  that  place  for 
ever  and  ever.  What  though  the  Gorromalt 
Water  foamed  do\vn  Ben  Nair,  where  the 
croft  was,  and  made  a  hoarse  voice  for  aye 
7  97 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

surrendering  sound  to  silence  ?  What  though 
at  times  the  stones  fell  from  the  ridges  of 
Ben  Chaisteal  and  Maolmor,  and  clattered 
down  the  barren  declivities  till  they  were 
slung  in  the  tangled  meshes  of  whin  and 
juniper?  What  though  on  stormy  dawns  the 
eagle  screamed  as  he  fought  against  the  wind 
that  graved  a  thin  line  upon  the  aged  front  of 
Ben  Mulad,  where  his  eyrie  was  :  or  that  the 
kestrel  cried  above  the  rabbit- burrows  in  the 
strath :  or  that  the  hill- fox  barked,  or  that 
the  curlew  wailed,  or  that  the  scattered  sheep 
made  an  endless  mournful  crying?  What 
were  these  but  the  ministers  of  silence? 

There  was  no  blue  smoke  in  the  strath 
except  from  the  one  turf  cot.  In  the  hidden 
valley  beyond  Ben  Nair  there  was  a  hamlet, 
and  nigh  upon  three-score  folk  lived  there  : 
but  that  was  over  three  miles  away.  Sine 
Macleod  was  alone  in  that  solitary  place,  save 
for  her  son  Alasdair  M6r  Og.  "  Young  Alas- 
dair  "  he  was  still,  though  the  gray  feet  of  fifty 
years  had  marked  his  hair.  Alasdair  Og  he 
was  while  Alasdair  Ruadh  mac  Chalum  mhic 
Leoid,  that  was  his  father,  hved.  But  when 
Alasdair  Ruadh  changed,  and  Sine  was  left  a 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

mourning  woman,  he  that  was  their  son  was 
Alasdair  6g  still. 

She  had  sore  weariness  that  day.  For  all 
that,  it  was  not  the  weight  of  the  burden 
that  made  her  go  in  out  of  the  afternoon  sun, 
and  sit  by  the  red  glow  of  the  peats,  brood- 
ing deep. 

When,  nigh  upon  an  hour  later,  Alasdair 
came  up  the  slope  and  led  the  kye  to  the 
byre,  she  did  not  hear  him  :  nor  had  she 
sight  of  him,  when  his  shadow  flickered  in 
before  him  and  lay  along  the  floor. 

"  Poor  old  woman,"  he  said  to  himself, 
bending  his  head  because  of  the  big  height 
that  was  his,  and  he  there  so  heavy  and 
strong,  and  tender,  too,  for  all  the  tangled 
black  beard  and  the  wild  hill- eyes  that 
looked  out  under  bristling  gray-black  eye- 
brows. 

"  Poor  old  woman,  and  she  with  the  tired 
heart  that  she  has.  Ay,  ay,  for  sure  the 
weeks  lap  up  her  shadow,  as  the  sayin'  is. 
She  will  be  thinking  of  him  that  is  gone. 
Ay,  or  maybe  the  old  thoughts  of  her  are 
goin'  back  on  their  own  steps,  down  this 
glen  an'  over  that  hill  an'  away  beyont  that 

99 


The  Fisher  of  A/[en 

strath,  an'  this  corrie  an'  that  moor.  Well, 
well,  it  is  a  good  love,  that  of  the  mother. 
Sure  a  bitter  pain  it  will  be  to  me  when 
there  's  no  old  gray  hair  there  to  stroke.  It 's 
quiet  here,  terrible  quiet,  God  knows,  to  Him- 
self be  the  blessin'  for  this  an'  for  that :  but 
when  she  has  the  white  sleep  at  last,  then  it  '11 
be  a  sore  day  for  me,  an'  one  that  I  will  not 
be  able  to  bear  to  hear  the  sheep  callin', 
callin',  callin'  through  the  rain  on  the  hills 
here,  and  Gorromalt  Water  an'  no  other  voice 
to  be  with  me  on  that  day  of  the  days." 

She  heard  a  faint  sigh,  and  stirred  a  mo- 
ment, but  did  not  look  round. 

"  Muim'-a-ghraidh,  is  it  tired  you  are,  an' 
this  so  fine  a  time,  too?" 

With  a  quick  gesture,  the  old  woman 
glanced  at  him. 

"Ah,  child,  is  that  you  indeed?  Well,  I 
am  glad  of  that,  for  I  have  the  trouble  again." 

"What  trouble,  Muim'-ghaolaiche  ?  " 

But  the  old  woman  did  not  answer. 
Wearily  she  turned  her  face  to  the  peat-glow 
again. 

Alasdair  seated  himself  on  the  big  wooden 
chair  to  her  right.  For  a  time  he  stayed 
loo 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

silent  thus,  staring  into  the  red  heart  of  the 
peats.  What  was  the  gloom  upon  the  old 
heart  that  he  loved?     What  trouble  was  it? 

At  last  he  rose  and  put  meal  and  water 
into  the  iron  pot,  and  stirred  the  porridge 
while  it  seethed  and  sputtered.  Then  he 
poured  boiling  water  upon  the  tea  in  the 
brown  jenny,  and  put  the  new  bread  and  the 
sweet-milk  scones  on  the  rude  deal  board 
that  was  the  table. 

"Come,  dear  tired  old  heart,"  he  said, 
"and  let  us  give  thanks  to  the  Being." 

"Blessings  and  thanks,"  she  said,  and 
turned  round. 

Alasdair  poured  out  the  porridge,  and 
watched  the  steam  rise.  Then  he  sat  down, 
with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  the  brown-white 
loaf  in  the  other. 

"O  God,"  he  said,  in  the  low  voice  he 
had  in  the  kirk  when  the  bread  and  wine  were 
given  —  "  O  God,  be  giving  us  now  thy  bless- 
ing, and  have  the  thanks.  And  give  us  peace." 

Peace  there  was  in  the  sorrowful  old  eyes 
of  the  mother.  The  two  ate  in  silence.  The 
big  clock  that  was  by  the  bed  tick-tacked^ 
tick- tacked.     A  faint  sputtering  came  out  of 

lOI 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

a  peat  that  had  bog-gas  in  it.  Shadows 
moved  in  the  silence,  and  met  and  whis- 
pered and  moved  into  deep,  warm  darkness. 
There  was  peace. 

There  was  still  a  red  flush  above  the  hills 
in  the  west  when  the  mother  and  son  sat  in 
the  ingle  again. 

"What  is  it,  mother-my-heart  ?  "  Alasdair 
asked  at  last,  putting  his  great  red  hand  upon 
the  woman's  knee. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  When 
she  spoke  she  turned  away  her  gaze  again. 

"  Foxes  have  holes,  and  the  fowls  of  the 
air  have  their  places  of  rest,  but  the  Son  of 
Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 

"  And  what  then,  dear  ?  Sure,  it  is  the 
deep  meaning  you  have  in  that  gray  old 
head  that  I  'm  loving  so." 

"  Ay,  lennav-aghray,  there  is  meaning  to 
my  words.  It  is  old  I  am,  and  the  hour  of 
my  hours  is  near.  I  heard  a  voice  outside 
the  window  last  night.  It  is  a  voice  I  will 
not  be  hearing,  no,  not  for  seventy  years. 
It  was  cradle-sweet,  it  was." 

She  paused,  and  there  was  silence  for  a 
time. 

I02 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

"Well,  dear,"  she  began  again,  wearily, 
and  in  a  low,  weak  voice,  "  it  is  more  tired 
and  more  tired  I  am  every  day  now  this  last 
month.  Two  Sabbaths  ago  I  woke,  and 
there  were  bells  in  the  air :  and  you  are  for 
knowing  well,  Alasdair,  that  no  kirk- bells 
ever  rang  in  Strath- Nair.  At  edge  o'  dark 
on  Friday,  and  by  the  same  token  the  thir- 
teenth day  it  was,  I  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed 
the  mools  were  on  my  breast,  and  that  the 
roots  of  the  white  daisies  were  in  the  hol- 
lows where  the  eyes  were  that  loved  you, 
Alasdair,  my  son." 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  troubled  gaze. 
No  words  would  come.  Of  what  avail  to 
speak  when  there  is  nothing  to  be  said? 
God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  cloud,  and 
there  is  rain  :  God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the 
hill,  and  there  is  mist :  God  sends  the  gloom 
upon  the  sun,  and  there  is  winter.  It  is 
God,  too,  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  soul, 
and  there  is  change.  The  swallow  knows 
when  to  lift  up  her  wing  over  against  the 
shadow  that  creeps  out  of  the  north :  the 
wild  swan  knows  when  the  smell  of  snow  is 
behind  the  sun :  the  salmon,  lone  in  the 
103 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

brown  pool  among  the  hills,  hears  the  deep 
sea,  and  his  tongue  pants  for  salt,  and  his 
fins  quiver,  and  he  knows  that  his  time  is 
come,  and  that  the  sea  calls.  The  doe 
knows  when  the  fawn  hath  not  yet  quaked 
in  her  belly  :  is  not  the  violet  more  deep  in 
the  shadowy  dewy  eyes  ?  The  woman  knows 
when  the  babe  hath  not  yet  stirred  a  little 
hand  :  is  not  the  wild-rose  on  her  cheek  more 
often  seen,  and  are  not  the  shy  tears  moist 
on  quiet  hands  in  the  dusk?  How,  then, 
shall  the  soul  not  know  when  the  change  is 
nigh  at  last?  Is  it  a  less  thing  than  a  reed, 
which  sees  the  yellow  birch-gold  adrift  on  the 
lake,  and  the  gown  of  the  heather  grow  russet 
when  the  purple  has  passed  into  the  sky,  and 
the  white  bog-down  wave  gray  and  tattered 
where  the  loneroid  grows  dark  and  pungent 
—  which  sees,  and  knows  that  the  breath  of 
the  Death-Weaver  at  the  Pole  is  fast  faring 
along  the  frozen  norland  peaks  ?  It  is  more 
than  a  reed,  it  is  more  than  a  wild  doe  on 
the  hills,  it  is  more  than  a  swallow  lifting  her 
wing  against  the  coming  of  the  shadow,  it  is 
more  than  a  swan  drunken  with  the  savour 
of  the  blue  wine  of  the  waves  when  the  green 
104 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

Arctic  lawns  are  white  and  still.  It  is  more 
than  these,  which  has  the  Son  of  God  for 
brother,  and  is  clothed  with  light.  God 
doth  not  extinguish  at  the  dark  tomb  what 
he  hath  litten  in  the  dark  womb. 

Who  shall  say  that  the  soul  knows  not 
when  the  bird  is  aweary  of  the  nest,  and  the 
nest  is  aweary  of  the  wind  ?  Who  shall  say 
that  all  portents  are  vain  imaginings?  A 
whirling  straw  upon  the  road  is  but  a  whirl- 
ing straw ;  yet  the  wind  is  upon  the  cheek 
almost  ere  it  is  gone. 

It  was  not  for  Alasdair  Og,  then,  to  put  a 
word  upon  the  saying  of  the  woman  that 
was  his  mother,  and  was  age-white,  and  could 
see  with  the  seeing  of  old  wise  eyes. 

So  all  that  was  upon  his  lips  was  a  sigh, 
and  the  poor  prayer  that  is  only  a  breath 
out  of  the  heart. 

"  You  will  be  telling  me,  gray  sweetheart," 
he  said  lovingly,  at  last  —  "  you  will  be  tell- 
ing me  what  was  behind  the  word  that  you 
said :  that  about  the  foxes  that  have  holes 
for  the  hiding,  poor  beasts,  and  the  birdeens 
wi'  their  nests,  though  the  Son  o'  Man  hath 
not  where  to  lay  his  head?  " 
105 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

"Ay,  Alasdair,  my  son  that  I  bore  long  syne 
an*  that  I  'm  leaving  soon,  I  will  be  for  telling 
you  that  thing,  an'  now  too,  for  I  am  knowing 
what  is  in  the  dark  this  night  o'  the  nights." 

Old  Sine  put  her  head  back  wearily  on 
the  chair,  and  let  her  hands  he,  long  and 
white,  palm-downward  upon  her  knees. 
The  peat-glow  warmed  the  dull  gray  that 
lurked  under  her  closed  eyes  and  about  her 
mouth,  and  in  the  furrowed  cheeks.  Alas- 
dair moved  nearer,  and  took  her  right  hand 
in  his,  where  it  lay  like  a  tired  sheep  between 
two  scarped  rocks.  Gently  he  smoothed 
her  hand,  and  wondered  why  so  frail  and 
slight  a  creature  as  this  small  old  wizened 
woman  could  have  mothered  a  great  swarthy 
man  like  himself —  he  a  man,  now,  with  his 
two  score  and  ten  years,  and  yet  but  a  boy 
there  at  the  dear  side  of  her. 

"  It  was  this  way,  Alasdair-mochree,"  she 
went  on  in  her  low  thin  voice,  — like  a  wind- 
worn  leaf,  the  man  that  was  her  son  thought. 
*'  It  was  this  way.  I  went  down  to  the  burn 
to  wash  the  claar,  and  when  I  was  there  I 
saw  a  wounded  fawn  in  the  bracken.  The 
1 06 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

big  sad  eyes  of  it  were  like  those  of  Maisie, 
poor  lass,  when  she  had  the  birthing  that 
was  her  going-call.  I  went  through  the 
bracken,  and  down  by  the  Gorromalt,  and 
into  the  Shadowy  Glen. 

"  And  when  I  was  there,  and  standing  by 
the  running  water,  I  saw  a  man  by  the 
stream-side.  He  was  tall,  but  spare  and 
weary  :  and  the  clothes  upon  him  were  poor 
and  worn.  He  had  sorrow.  When  he  lifted 
his  head  at  me,  I  saw  the  tears.  Dark, 
wonderful,  sweet  eyes  they  were.  His  face 
was  pale.  It  was  not  the  face  of  a  man  of 
the  hills.  There  was  no  red  in  it,  and  the 
eyes  looked  in  upon  themselves.  He  was  a 
fair  man,  with  the  white  hands  that  a  woman 
has,  a  woman  like  the  Bantighearna  of  Glen- 
chaisteal  over  yonder.  His  voice,  too,  was 
a  voice  like  that :  in  the  softness,  and  the 
sweet,  quiet  sorrow,  I  am  meaning. 

"The  word  that  I  gave  him  was  in  the 
English :  for  I  thought  he  was  like  a  man 
out  of  Sasunn,  or  of  the  southlands  some- 
where. But  he  answered  me  in  the  Gaelic  : 
sweet,  good  Gaelic  like  that  of  the  Bioball 
over  there,  to  Himself  be  the  praise. 
107 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

"  *  And  is  it  the  way  down  the  Strath  you 
are  seeking  ? '  I  asked  :  *  and  will  you  not  be 
coming  up  to  the  house  yonder,  poor  cot 
though  it  is,  and  have  a  sup  of  milk,  and  a 
rest  if  it 's  weary  you  are  ?  ' 

"*You  are  having  my  thanks  for  that,'  he 
said,  '  and  it  is  as  though  I  had  both  the 
good  rest  and  the  cool  sweet  drink.  But  I 
am  following  the  flowing  water  here.' 

"  '  Is  it  for  the  fishing? '  I  asked. 

"  *  I  am  a  Fisher,'  he  said,  and  the  voice 
of  him  was  low  and  sad.  He  had  no  hat  on 
his  head,  and  the  light  that  streamed  through 
a  rowan-tree  was  in  his  long  hair.  He  had 
the  pity  of  the  poor  in  his  sorrowful  gray 
eyes. 

" '  And  will  you  not  sleep  with  us  ? '  I 
asked  again :  '  that  is,  if  you  have  no  place 
to  go  to,  and  are  a  stranger  in  this  country, 
as  I  am  thinking  you  are ;  for  I  have  never 
had  sight  of  you  in  the  home-straths  before.' 

"  *  I  am  a  stranger '  he  said,  *  and  I  have 
no  home,  and  my  father's  house  is  a  great 
way  off.' 

"  *  Do  not  tell  me,  poor  man,'  I  said  gently, 
for  fear  of  the  pain,  *  do  not  tell  me  if  you 
1 08 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

would  fain  not ;  but  it  is  glad  I  will  be  if  you 
will  give  me  the  name  you  have.' 

"  '  My  name  is  Mac-an-t'-Saoir,'  he  an- 
swered with  the  quiet  deep  gaze  that  was  his. 
And  with  that  he  bowed  his  head,  and  went 
on  his  way,  brooding  deep. 

"  Well,  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  I  turned, 
and  went  back  through  the  bracken.  A 
heavy  heart,  for  sure,  and  yet,  oh  peace  too, 
cool  dews  of  peace.  And  the  fawn  was 
there  :  healed,  Alasdair,  healed,  and  whinny- 
bleating  for  its  doe,  that  stood  on  a  rock  wi' 
lifted  hoof  an'  stared  down  the  glen  to  where 
the  Fisher  was. 

"When  I  was  at  the  burnside,  a  woman 
came  down  the  brae.  She  was  fair  to  see, 
but  the  tears  were  upon  her. 

"  '  Oh,'  she  cried,  *  have  you  seen  a  man 
going  this  way  ?  ' 

" '  Ay,  for  sure,'  I  answered,  '  but  what 
man  would  he  be?' 

" '  He  is  called  Mac-an-t'-Saoir.' 

" '  Well,  there  are  many  men  that  are  called 
Son  of  the  Carpenter.  What  will  his  own 
name  be  ? ' 

" '  losa,'  she  said. 

109 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

"  And  when  I  looked  at  her,  she  was  weav- 
ing the  wavy  branches  of  a  thorn  near  by, 
and  sobbing  low,  and  it  was  like  a  wreath  or 
crown  that  she  made. 

" '  And  who  will  you  be,  poor  woman  ? '  I 
asked. 

^' '  O  my  Son,  my  Son,'  she  said,  and  put 
her  apron  over  her  head  and  went  down  into 
the  Shadowy  Glen,  she  weeping  sore,  too,  at 
that,  poor  woman. 

"  So  now,  Alasdair,  my  son,  tell  me  what 
thought  you  have  about  this  thing  that  I 
have  told  you.  For  I  know  well  whom  I 
met  on  the  brae  there,  and  who  the  Fisher 
was.  And  when  I  was  at  the  peats  here 
once  more  I  sat  down,  and  my  mind  sank 
into  myself.  And  it  is  knowing  the  knowl- 
edge I  am." 

"  Well,  well,  dear,  it  is  sore  tired  you  are. 
Have  rest  now.  But  sure  there  are  many 
men  called  Macintyre." 

"  Ay,  and  what  Gael  that  you  know  will  be 
for  giving  you  his  surname  like  that?  " 

Alasdair  had  no  word  for  that.     He  rose 
to  put  some  more  peats  on  the  fire.     When 
he  had  done  this,  he  gave  a  cry. 
no 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

The  whiteness  that  was  on  the  mother's  hair 
was  now  in  the  face.  There  was  no  blood 
there,  or  in  the  drawn  lips.  The  light  in  the 
old,  dim  eyes  was  like  water  after  frost. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his.  Clay-cold  it 
was.  He  let  it  go,  and  it  fell  straight  by  the 
chair,  stiff  as  the  cromak  he  carried  when  he 
was  with  the  sheep. 

"O  my  God  and  my  God,"  he  whispered, 
white  with  the  awe,  and  the  bitter  cruel  pain. 

Then  it  was  that  he  heard  a  knocking  at 
the  door. 

"  Who  is  there?  "  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"Open,  and  let  me  in."  It  was  alow, 
sweet  voice ;  but  was  that  gray  hour  the  time 
for  a  welcome  ? 

"  Go,  but  go  in  peace,  whoever  you  are. 
There  is  death  here." 

"  Open,  and  let  me  in." 

At  that,  Alasdair,  shaking  like  a  reed  in  the 
wind,  unclasped  the  latch.  A  tall,  fair  man, 
ill-clad  and  weary,  pale,  too,  and  with  dream- 
ing eyes,  came  in. 

^^ Beannachd  Dhe  an  Tigh,'"  he  said ; 
*' God's  blessing  on  this  house,  and  on  all 
here." 

Ill 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

"The  same  upon  yourself,"  Alasdair  said, 
with  a  weary  pain  in  his  voice.  "  And  who 
will  you  be?   and  forgive  the  asking." 

"  I  am  called  Mac-an-t'-Saoir,  and  losa  is 
the  name  I  bear  —  Jesus,  the  Son  of  the 
Carpenter." 

"  It  is  a  good  name.  And  is  it  good  you 
are  seeking  this  night  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  Fisher." 

"  Well,  that 's  here  an'  that 's  there.  But 
will  you  go  to  the  Strath  over  the  hill,  and 
tell  the  good  man  that  is  there,  the  minister, 
Lachlan  MacLachlan,  that  old  Sine  nic 
Leoid,  wife  of  Alasdair  Ruadh,  is  dead." 

"  I  know  that,  Alasdair  Og." 

"  And  how  will  you  be  knowing  that,  and 
my  name,  too,  you  that  are  called  Macin- 
tyre?" 

"  I  met  the  white  soul  of  Sine  as  it  went 
down  by  the  Shadowy  Glen  a  brief  while  ago. 
She  was  singing  a  glad  song,  she  was.  She 
had  green  youth  in  her  eyes.  And  a  man 
was  holding  her  by  the  hand.  It  was  Alas- 
dair Ruadh." 

At  that  Alasdair  fell  on  his  knees.  When 
he    looked    up,    there    was    no   one   there. 

112 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

Through  the  darkness  outside  the  door,  he  saw 
a  star  shining  white,  and  leaping  hke  a  pulse. 

It  was  three  days  after  that  day  of  shadow 
that  Sine  Macleod  was  put  under  the  green 
turf. 

On  each  night,  Alasdair  6g  walked  in  the 
Shadowy  Glen,  and  there  he  saw  a  man  fish- 
ing, though  ever  afar  off.  Stooping  he  was, 
always,  and  like  a  shadow  at  times.  But  he 
was  the  man  that  was  called  losa  Mac-an-t'- 
Saoir  —  Jesus,  the  Son  of  the  Carpenter. 

And  on  the  night  of  the  earthing  he  saw 
the  Fisher  close  by. 

"  Lord  God,"  he  said,  with  the  hush  on 
his  voice,  and  deep  awe  in  his  wondering 
eyes  :    "  Lord  God  !  " 

And  the  Man  looked  at  him. 

"  Night  and  day,  Alasdair  MacAlasdair,"  he 
said,  "  night  and  day  I  fish  in  the  waters  of 
the  world.  And  these  waters  are  the  waters 
of  grief,  and  the  waters  of  sorrow,  and  the 
waters  of  despair.  And  it  is  the  souls  of  the 
living  I  fish  for.  And  lo,  I  say  this  thing 
unto  you,  for  you  shall  not  see  me  again  :  Go 
in  peace.  Go  in  peace,  good  soul  of  a  poor 
man,  for  thou  hast  seen  the  Fisher  of  Men." 
8  113 


THE    LAST    SUPPER 


"5 


" .  .  .  .  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new.  .  .  . 

Hyperion. 


ii6 


THE    LAST    SUPPER. 

THE  last  time  that  the  Fisher  of  Men 
was  seen  in  Strath  Nair  was  not  of 
Alasdair  Macleod  but  of  the  little  child,  Art 
Macarthur,  him  that  was  bom  of  the  woman 
Mary  Gilchrist,  that  had  known  the  sorrow 
of  women. 

He  was  a  little  child,  indeed,  when,  be- 
cause of  his  loneliness  and  having  lost  his 
way,  he  lay  sobbing  among  the  bracken  by 
the  streamside  in  the  Shadowy  Glen. 

When  he  was  a  man,  and  had  reached  the 
gloaming  of  his  years,  he  was  loved  of  men 
and  women,  for  his  songs  are  many  and 
sweet,  and  his  heart  was  true,  and  he  was  a 
good  man  and  had  no  evil  against  any  one. 

It  is  he  who  saw  the  Fisher  of  Men,  when 
he  was  but  a  little  lad ;  and  some  say  that  it 
was  on  the  eve  of  the  day  that  Alasdair  6g 
died,  though  of  this  I  know  nothing.  And 
what  he  saw,  and  what  he  heard,  was  a  moon- 
117 


The  Last  Supper 

beam  that  fell  mto  the  dark  sea  of  his  mind, 

and  sank  therein,  and  filled  it  with  light  for 
all  the  days  of  his  life.  A  moonlit  mind  was 
that  of  Art  Macarthur :  him  that  is  known 
best  as  Ian  Mor,  Ian  Mor  of  the  Hills,  though 
why  he  took  the  name  of  Ian  Cameron  is 
known  to  none  now  but  one  person,  and 
that  need  not  be  for  the  telling  here.  He 
had  music  always  in  his  mind.  I  asked  him 
once  why  he  heard  what  so  few  heard,  but 
he  smiled  and  said  only :  "  When  the  heart 
is  full  of  love,  cool  dews  of  peace  rise  from 
it  and  fall  upon  the  mind :  and  that  is  when 
the  song  of*  Joy  is  heard."  It  must  have 
been  because  of  this  shining  of  his  soul  that 
some  who  loved  him  thought  of  him  as  one 
illumined.  His  mind  was  a  shell  that  held 
the  haunting  echo  of  the  deep  seas :  and  to 
know  him  was  to  catch  a  breath  of  the  infi- 
nite ocean  of  wonder  and  mystery  and  beauty 
of  which  he  was  the  quiet  oracle.  He  has 
peace  now,  where  he  lies  under  the  heather 
upon  a  hillside  far  away :  but  the  Fisher  of 
Men  will  send  him  hithervvard  again,  to  put 
a  light  upon  the  wave,  and  a  gleam  upon  the 
brown  earth. 

ii8 


The  Last  Supper 

I  will  tell  this  sgeul  as  Ian  Mor,  that  was 
the  little  child  Art  Macarthur,  told  it  to  me. 

Often  and  often  it  is  to  me  all  as  a  dream 
that  comes  miawares.  Often  and  often  have 
I  striven  to  see  into  the  green  glens  of  the 
mind  whence  it  comes,  and  whither,  in  a 
flash,  in  a  rainbow  gleam,  it  vanishes.  When 
I  seek  to  draw  close  to  it,  to  know  whether 
it  is  a  winged  glory  out  of  the  soul,  or  was 
indeed  a  thing  that  happened  to  me  in  my 
tender  years,  lo  —  it  is  a  dawn  drowned  in  day, 
a  star  lost  in  the  sun,  the  falling  of  dew. 

But  I  will  not  be  forgetting :  no,  never ; 
no,  not  till  the  silence  of  the  grass  is  over  my 
eyes  :    I  will  not  be  forgetting  that  gloaming. 

Bitter  tears  are  those  that  children  have. 
All  that  we  say  with  vain  words  is  said  by 
them  in  this  welling  spray  of  pain.  I  had 
the  sorrow  that  day.  Strange  hostilities 
lurked  in  the  familiar  bracken.  The  sough- 
ing of  the  wind  among  the  trees,  the  wash 
of  the  brown  water  by  my  side,  that  had 
been  companionable,  were  voices  of  awe. 
The  quiet  light  upon  the  grass  flamed. 

The  fierce  people  that  lurked  in  shadow  had 
119 


The  Last  Supper 

eyes  for  my  helplessness.  When  the  dark 
came  I  thought  I  should  be  dead,  devoured  of 
I  knew  not  what  wild  creature.  Would  mother 
never  come,  never  come  with  saving  arms,  with 
eyes  like  soft  candles  of  home  ? 

Then  my  sobs  grew  still,  for  I  heard  a 
step.  With  dread  upon  me,  poor  wee  lad 
that  I  was,  I  looked  to  see  who  came  out  of 
the  wilderness.  It  was  a  man,  tall  and  thin 
and  worn,  with  long  hair  hanging  adown  his 
face.  Pale  he  was  as  a  moonlit  cot  on  the 
dark  moor,  and  his  voice  was  low  and  sweet. 
When  I  saw  his  eyes,  I  had  no  fear  upon  me 
at  all.  I  saw  the  mother-look  in  the  gray 
shadow  of  them. 

"And  is  that  you,  Art  lennavan-mo?  "  he 
said,  as  he  stooped  and  lifted  me. 

I  had  no  fear.    The  wet  was  out  of  my  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  you  will  be  listening  to,  now, 
my  little  lad?"  he  whispered,  as  he  saw  me 
lean,  intent,  to  catch  I  know  not  what. 

"Sure,"  I  said,  "I  am  not  for  knowing; 
but  I  thought  I  heard  a  music  away  down 
there  in  the  wood." 

I  heard  it,  for  sure.  It  was  a  wondrous  sweet 
air,  as  of  one  playing  the  feadan  in  a  dream. 
1 20 


The  Last  Supper 

Galium  Dall,  the  piper,  could  give  no  rarer 
music  than  that  was ;  and  Galium  was  a  sev- 
enth son,  and  was  born  in  the  moonshine. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  this  night  of  the 
nights,  little  Art?"  the  man  asked  me,  with 
his  lips  touching  my  brow  and  giving  me 
rest. 

"  That  I  will  indeed  and  indeed,"  I  said. 
And  then  I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  woke  we  were  in  the  huntsman's 
booth  that  is  at  the  far  end  of  the  Shadowy 
Glen. 

There  was  a  long  rough-hewn  table  in  it, 
and  I  stared  when  I  saw  bowls  and  a  great 
jug  of  milk  and  a  plate  heaped  with  oat- 
cakes, and  beside  it  a  brown  loaf  of  rye-bread. 

"  Little  Art,"  said  he  who  carried  me,  "are 
you  for  knowing  now  who  I  am?  " 

"You  are  a  prince,  I  'm  thinking,"  was  the 
shy  word  that  came  to  my  mouth. 

"  Sure,  lennav-aghray,  that  is  so.  It  is 
called  the  Prince  of  Peace  I  am." 

"And  who  is  to  be  eating  all  this?"  I 
asked. 

"This  is  the  last  supper,"  the  prince  said, 
so  low  that   I   could  scarce   hear;    and   it 

121 


The  Last  Supper 

seemed  to  me  that  he  whispered,  "  for  I  die 
daily,  and  ever  ere  I  die  the  Twelve  break 
bread  with  me." 

It  was  then  I  saw  that  there  were  six  bowls 
of  porridge  on  the  one  side  and  six  on  the 
other. 

"What  is  your  name,  O  Prince?  " 

"losa." 

"And  will  you  have  no  other  name  than 
that?" 

"  I  am  called  losa  mac  Dhe." 

"And  is  it  living  in  this  house  you  are?  " 

"Ay.  But  Art,  my  little  lad,  I  will  kiss 
your  eyes,  and  you  shall  see  who  sup  with 
me." 

And  with  that  the  prince  that  was  called 
losa  kissed  me  on  the  eyes,  and  I  saw. 

"You  will  never  be  quite  bUnd  again," 
he  whispered,  and  that  is  why  all  the  long 
years  of  my  years  I  have  been  glad  in  my 
soul. 

What  I  saw  was  a  thing  strange  and  won- 
derful. Twelve  men  sat  at  that  table,  and 
all  had  eyes  of  love  upon  losa.  But  they 
were  not  like  any  men  I  had  ever  seen.  Tall 
and  fair  and  terrible  they  were,  like  morning 

122 


The  Last  Supper 

in  a  desert  place ;  all  save  one,  who  was 
dark,  and  had  a  shadow  upon  him  and  in  his 
wild  eyes. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  each  was  clad  in 
radiant  mist.  The  eyes  of  them  were  as 
stars  through  that  mist. 

And  each,  before  he  broke  bread,  or  put 
spoon  to  the  porridge  that  was  in  the  bowl 
before  him,  laid  down  upon  the  table  three 
shuttles.  Long  I  looked  upon  that  company, 
but  losa  held  me  in  his  arms,  and  I  had  no 
fear. 

"Who  are  these  men?"  he  asked  me. 

"The  Sons  of  God,"  I  said;  I  not  know- 
ing what  I  said,  for  it  was  but  a  child  I 
was. 

He  smiled  at  that.  "  Behold,"  he  spoke 
to  the  twelve  men  who  sat  at  the  table,  "  be- 
hold the  little  one  is  wiser  than  the  wisest  of 
ye."  At  that  all  smiled  with  the  gladness 
and  the  joy,  save  one  :  him  that  was  in  the 
shadow.  He  looked  at  me,  and  I  remem- 
bered two  black  lonely  tarns  upon  the  hill- 
side, black  with  the  terror  because  of  the 
kelpie  and  the  drown er. 

"Who  are  these  men?"  I  whispered,  with 
123 


The  Last  Supper 

the  tremor  on  me,  that  was  come  of  the  awe 
I  had. 

"  They  are  the  Twelve  Weavers,  Art,  my 
Httle  child." 

"And  what  is  their  weaving?  " 

"They  weave  for  ray  Father,  whose  web 
I  am." 

At  that  I  looked  upon  the  prince,  but  I 
could  see  no  web. 

"  Are  you  not  losa  the  Prince?  " 

"  I  am  the  Web  of  Life,  Art  lennavan-mo." 

"  And  what  are  the  three  shuttles  that  are 
beside  each  Weaver?" 

I  know  now  that  when  I  turned  my  child's 
eyes  upon  these  shuttles  I  saw  that  they  were 
alive  and  wonderful,  and  never  the  same  to 
the  seeing. 

"  They  are  called  Beauty  and  Wonder  and 
Mystery  y 

And  with  that  losa  mac  Dhe  sat  down  and 
talked  with  the  Twelve.  All  were  passing 
fair,  save  him  who  looked  sidelong  out  of 
dark  eyes.  I  thought  each,  as  I  looked  at 
him,  more  beautiful  than  any  of  his  fellows ; 
but  most  I  loved  to  look  at  the  twain  who 
sat  on  either  side  of  losa. 

124 


The  Last  Supper 

"  He  will  be  a  Dreamer  among  men," 
said  the  prince ;  "  so  tell  him  who  ye  are." 

Then  he  who  was  on  the  right  turned  his 
eyes  upon  me.  I  leaned  to  him,  laughing 
low  with  the  glad  pleasure  I  had  because  of 
his  eyes  and  shining  hair,  and  the  flame  as 
of  the  blue  sky  that  was  his  robe. 

"  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Joy,"  he  said.  And 
with  that  he  took  his  three  shuttles  that  were 
called  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery, 
and  he  wove  an  immortal  shape,  and  it  went 
forth  of  the  room  and  out  into  the  green 
world,  singing  a  rapturous  sweet  song. 

Then  he  that  was  upon  the  left  of  losa  the 
Life,  looked  at  me,  and  my  heart  leaped. 
He,  too,  had  shining  hair,  but  I  could  not  tell 
the  colour  of  his  eyes  for  the  glory  that  was 
in  them.  "  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Love,"  he 
said ;  "  and  I  sit  next  the  heart  of  losa." 
And  with  that  he  took  his  three  shuttles  that 
were  called  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mys- 
tery, and  he  wove  an  immortal  shape, 
and  it  went  forth  of  the  room  and  out  into 
the  green  world,  singing  a  rapturous  sweet 
song. 

Even  then,  child  as  I  was,  I  wished  to 
125 


The  Last  Supper 

look  on  no  other.  None  could  be  so  passing 
fair,  I  thought,  as  the  Weaver  of  Joy  and  the 
Weaver  of  Love. 

But  a  wondrous  sweet  voice  sang  in  my 
ears,  and  a  cool,  soft  hand  laid  itself  upon 
my  head,  and  the  beautiful  lordly  one  who 
had  spoken  said, "  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Death," 
and  the  lovely  whispering  one  who  had  lulled 
me  with  rest  said,  "  I  am  the  Weaver  of 
Sleep."  And  each  wove  with  the  shuttles 
of  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery,  and  I 
knew  not  which  was  the  more  fair,  and  Death 
seemed  to  me  as  Love,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
Dream  I  saw  Joy. 

My  gaze  was  still  upon  the  fair  wonderful 
shapes  that  went  forth  from  these  twain, — 
from  the  Weaver  of  Sleep,  an  immortal  shape 
of  star-eyed  Silence,  and  from  the  Weaver  of 
Death  a  lovely  Dusk  with  a  heart  of  hidden 
flame  — when  I  heard  the  voice  of  two  others 
of  the  Twelve.  They  were  like  the  laughter 
of  the  wind  in  the  corn,  and  like  the  golden 
fire  upon  that  corn.  And  the  one  said,  "I 
am  the  Weaver  of  Passion,"  and  when  he 
spoke  I  thought  that  he  was  both  Love  and 
Joy,  and  Death  and  Life,  and  I  put  out  my 
126 


The  Last  Supper 

hands.  "It  is  Strength  I  give,"  he  said; 
and  he  took  and  kissed  me.  Then,  while 
losa  took  me  again  upon  his  knee,  I  saw  the 
Weaver  of  Passion  turn  to  the  white  glory 
beside  him,  —  him  that  losa  whispered  to 
me  was  the  secret  of  the  world,  and  that  was 
called  "  The  Weaver  of  Youth."  I  know  not 
whence  nor  how  it  came,  but  there  was  a  sing- 
ing of  skyey  birds  when  these  twain  took  the 
shuttles  of  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery 
and  wove  each  an  immortal  shape,  and  bade 
it  go  forth  out  of  the  room  into  the  green 
world,  to  sing  there  for  ever  and  ever  in  the 
ears  of  man  a  rapturous  sweet  song. 

"O  losa,"  I  cried,  "are  these  all  thy 
brethren  ?  for  each  is  fair  as  thee,  and  all  have 
lit  their  eyes  at  the  white  fire  I  see  now  in 
thy  heart." 

But,  before  he  spake,  the  room  was  filled 
with  music.  I  trembled  with  the  joy,  and  in 
my  ears  it  has  lingered  ever,  nor  shall  ever 
go.  Then  I  saw  that  it  was  the  breathing  of 
the  seventh  and  eighth,  of  the  ninth  and  the 
tenth  of  those  star-eyed  ministers  of  losa 
whom  he  called  the  Twelve  :  and  the  names 
of  them  were  the  Weaver  of  Laughter,  the 
127 


The  Last  Supper 

Weaver  of  Tears,  the  Weaver  of  Prayer,  and 
the  Weaver  of  Peace.  Each  rose  and  kissed 
me  there.  *'We  shall  be  with  you  to  the 
end,  little  Art,"  they  said :  and  I  took  hold 
of  the  hand  of  one,  and  cried,  "  O  beautiful 
one,  be  likewise  with  the  woman  my  mother," 
and  there  came  back  to  me  the  whisper  of 
the  Weaver  of  Tears  :  "  I  will,  unto  the  end." 

Then,  wonderingly,  I  watched  him  like- 
wise take  the  shuttles  that  were  ever  the  same 
and  yet  never  the  same,  and  weave  an  im- 
mortal shape.  And  when  this  soul  of  Tears 
went  forth  of  the  room,  I  thought  it  was 
my  mother's  voice  singing  that  rapturous 
sweet  song,  and  I  cried  out  to  it. 

The  fair  immortal  turned  and  waved  to 
me.  "  I  shall  never  be  far  from  thee,  little 
Art,"  it  sighed,  like  summer  rain  falling  on 
leaves :  "  but  I  go  now  to  my  home  in  the 
heart  of  women." 

There  were  now  but  two  out  of  the  Twelve. 
Oh  the  gladness  and  the  joy  when  I  looked 
at  him  who  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of 
losa  that  was  the  Life  !  He  Hfted  the  three 
shuttles  of  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery, 
and  he  wove  a  Mist  of  Rainbows  in  that 
128 


The  Last  Supper 

room ;  and  in  the  glory  I  saw  that  even  the 
dark  twelfth  one  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  O  what  will  the  name  of  you  be  !  '*  I 
cried,  straining  my  arms  to  the  beautiful 
lordly  one.  But  he  did  not  hear,  for  he 
wrought  Rainbow  after  Rainbow  out  of  the 
mist  of  glory  that  he  made,  and  sent  each 
out  into  the  green  world,  to  be  for  ever  before 
the  eyes  of  men. 

"He  is  the  Weaver  of  Hope,"  whispered 
losa  mac  Dhe,  "  and  he  is  the  soul  of  each 
that  is  here." 

Then  I  turned  to  the  twelfth,  and  said, 
"  Who  art  thou,  O  lordly  one  with  the 
shadow  in  the  eyes?  " 

But  he  answered  not,  and  there  was  silence 
in  the  room.  And  all  there,  from  the 
Weaver  of  Joy  to  the  Weaver  of  Peace, 
looked  down,  and  said  nought.  Only  the 
Weaver  of  Hope  wrought  a  rainbow,  and  it 
drifted  into  the  heart  of  the  lonely  Weaver 
that  was  twelfth. 

"  And  who  will  this  man  be,  O  losa  mac 
Dhe?"  I  whispered. 

"Answer  the  little  child,"  said  losa,  and 
his  voice  was  sad. 

9  129 


The  Last  Supper 

Then  the  Weaver  answered. 

"  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Glory  "  —  he  began, 
but  losa  looked  at  him,  and  he  said  no 
more. 

"Art,  little  lad,"  said  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
"  he  is  the  one  who  betrayeth  me  for  ever. 
He  is  Judas,  the  Weaver  of  Fear." 

And  at  that  the  sorrowful  shadow- eyed 
man  that  was  the  twelfth  took  up  the  three 
shuttles  that  were  before  him. 

"And  what  are  these,  O  Judas?"  I  cried 
eagerly,  for  I  saw  that  they  were  black. 

When  he  answered  not  one  of  the  Twelve 
leaned  forward  and  looked  at  him.  It  was 
the  Weaver  of  Death  who  did  this  thing. 

"  The  three  shuttles  of  Judas  the  Fear- 
Weaver,  O  Httle  Art,"  said  the  Weaver  of 
Death,  are  "called  Mystery,  and  Despair, 
and  the  Grave." 

And  with  that  Judas  rose  and  left  the 
room.  But  the  shape  that  he  had  woven 
went  forth  with  him  as  his  shadow :  and 
each  fared  out  into  the  dim  world,  and  the 
Shadow  entered  into  the  minds  and  into 
the  hearts  of  men,  and  betrayed  losa  that 
was  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
130 


The  Last  Supper 

Thereupon,  losa  rose,  and  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  led  me  out  of  that  room.  When, 
once,  I  looked  back  I  saw  none  of  the 
Twelve  save  only  the  Weaver  of  Hope,  and 
he  sat  singing  a  wild  sweet  song  that  he  had 
learned  of  the  Weaver  of  Joy,  sat  singing 
amid  a  mist  of  rainbows  and  weaving  a 
radiant  glory  that  was  dazzling  as  the  sun. 

And  at  that  I  woke,  and  was  against  my 
mother's  heart,  and  she  with  the  tears  upon 
me,  and  her  lips  moving  in  a  prayer. 


131 


THE  DARK  NAMELESS  ONE 


133 


i 


THE   DARK   NAMELESS   ONE. 

ONE  day  this  summer  I  sailed  with 
Padruice  Macrae  and  Ivor  McLean, 
boatmen  of  lona,  along  the  southwestern 
reach  of  the  Ross  of  Mull. 

The  whole  coast  of  the  Ross  is  indescriba- 
bly wild  and  desolate.  From  Feenafort 
(Fhionn-phort)  opposite  BalHemore  of  Icolm- 
kill,  to  the  hamlet  of  Earraid  Lighthouse,  it 
were  hardly  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  whole 
tract  is  uninhabited  by  man  and  unenlivened 
by  any  green  thing.  It  is  the  haunt  of  the 
cormorant  and  the  seal. 

No  one  who  has  not  visited  this  region  can 
realise  its  barrenness.  Its  one  beauty  is  the 
faint  bloom  which  lies  upon  it  in  the  sunlight 
—  a  bloom  which  becomes  as  the  glow  of 
an  inner  flame  when  the  sun  westers  without 
cloud  or  mist.  This  is  from  the  ruddy  hue 
of  the  granite,  of  which  all  that  wilderness  is 
wrought. 

135 


The   Dark  Nameless  One 

It  is  a  land  tortured  by  the  sea,  scourged 
by  the  sea-wind.  A  myriad  lochs,  fiords, 
inlets,  passages,  serrate  its  broken  frontiers. 
Innumerable  islets  and  reefs,  fanged  like 
ravenous  wolves,  sentinel  every  shallow,  lurk 
in  every  strait.  He  must  be  a  skilled  boat- 
man who  would  take  the  Sound  of  Earraid 
and  penetrate  the  reaches  of  the  Ross. 

There  are  many  days  in  the  months  of 
peace,  as  the  islanders  call  the  period  from 
Easter  till  the  autumnal  equinox,  when  Ear- 
raid  and  the  rest  of  Ross  seem  under  a  spell. 
It  is  the  spell  of  beauty.  Then  the  yellow 
light  of  the  sun  is  upon  the  tumbled  masses 
and  precipitous  shelves  and  ledges,  ruddy 
petals  or  leaves  of  that  vast  Flower  of  Gran- 
ite. Across  it  the  cloud  shadows  trail  their 
purple  elongations,  their  scythe-sweep  curves, 
and  abrupt  evanishing  floodings  of  warm 
dusk.  From  wet  boulder  to  boulder,  from 
crag  to  shelly  crag,  from  fissure  to  fissure, 
the  sea  ceaselessly  weaves  a  girdle  of  foam. 
When  the  wide  luminous  stretch  of  waters 
beyond  —  green  near  the  land,  and  farther 
out  all  of  a  living  blue,  interspersed  with 
wide  alleys  of  amethyst  —  is  white  with  the 
136 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

sea-horses,  there  is  such  a  laughter  of  surge 
and  splash  all  the  way  from  Slugan-dubh  to 
the  Rudha-nam-Maol-Mora,  or  to  the  tide- 
swept  promontory  of  the  Sgeireig-a'-Bhoch- 
daidh,  that,  looking  inland,  one  sees  through 
a  rainbow-shimmering  veil  of  ever-flying 
spray. 

But  the  sun  spell  is  even  more  fugitive 
upon  the  face  of  this  wild  land  than  the 
spell  of  beauty  upon  a  woman.  So  runs 
one  of  our  proverbs  :  as  the  falling  of  the 
wave,  as  the  fading  of  the  leaf,  so  is  the 
beauty  of  a  woman,  unless  —  ah,  that  unless ^ 
and  the  indiscoverable  fount  of  joy  that  can 
only  be  come  upon  by  hazard  once  in  life, 
and  thereafter  only  in  dreams,  and  the  Land 
of  the  Rainbow  that  is  never  reached,  and 
the  green  sea-doors  of  Tir-na-thonn,  that 
open  now  no  more  to  any  wandering  wave  ! 

It  was  from  Ivor  McLean,  on  that  day, 
I  heard  the  strange  tale  of  his  kinsman 
Murdoch,  the  tale  of  "The  Ninth  Wave" 
that  I  have  told  elsewhere.  It  was  Padruic, 
however,  who  told  me  of  the  Sea-witch  of 
Earraid. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  heard  of  the 
137 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

uisge-each "  (the  sea- beast,  sea-kelpie,  or 
water-horse),  "but  I  have  never  seen  it 
with  the  eyes.  My  father  and  my  brother 
knew  of  it.  But  this  thing  I  know,  and  this 
what  we  call  an-cailleach-uisge "  (the  siren 
or  water-witch)  ;  "  the  cailliach,  mind  you, 
not  the  maighdeann-mhdra "  (the  mer- 
maid), "who  means  no  harm.  May  she 
hear  my  saying  it !  The  cailliach  is  old  and 
clad  in  weeds,  but  her  voice  is  young,  and 
she  always  sits  so  that  the  light  is  in  the 
eyes  of  the  beholder.  She  seems  to  him 
young  also,  and  fair.  She  has  two  familiars 
in  the  form  of  seals,  one  black  as  the  grave, 
and  the  other  white  as  the  shroud  that  is  in 
the  grave ;  and  these  sometimes  upset  a 
boat,  if  the  sailor  laughs  at  the  uisge- 
cailliach's  song. 

"  A  man  netted  one  of  those  seals,  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago,  with  his  herring- 
trawl,  and  dragged  it  into  the  boat;  but  the 
other  seal  tore  at  the  net  so  savagely,  with 
its  head  and  paws  over  the  bows,  that  it  was 
clear  no  net  would  long  avail.  The  man 
heard  them  crying  and  screaming,  and  then 
talking  low  and  muttering,  like  women  in 

138 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

j»  frenzy.  In  his  fear  he  cast  the  nets  adrift, 
all  but  a  small  portion  that  was  caught  in 
the  thwarts.  Afterwards,  in  this  portion,  he 
found  a  tress  of  woman's  hair.  And  that  is 
just  so  :    to  the  Stones  be  it  said. 

**The  grandson  of  this  man,  Tomais 
McNair,  is  still  living,  a  shepherd  on  Eilean- 
Uamhain,  beyond  Lunga  in  the  Cairnburg 
Isles.  A  few  years  ago,  off  Callachan  Point, 
he  saw  the  two  seals,  and  heard,  though  he 
did  not  see,  the  cailliach.  And  that  which  I 
tell  you,  —  Christ's  Cross  before  me  —  is 
a  true  thing." 

All  the  time  that  Padruic  was  speaking 
I  saw  that  Ivor  McLean  looked  away  :  either 
as  though  he  heard  nothing,  or  did  not 
wish  to  hear.  There  was  dream  in  his  eyes ; 
I  saw  that,  so  said  nothing  for  a  time. 

"What  is  it,  Ivor?  "  I  asked  at  last,  in  a 
low  voice.  He  started,  and  looked  at  me 
strangely. 

"What  will  you  be  asking  that  for?  What 
are  you  doing  in  my  mind,  that  is  secret?  " 

"  I  see  that  you  are  brooding  over  some- 
thing.    Will  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"Tell  her,"  said  Padruic  quietly. 
139 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

But  Ivor  kept  silent.  There  was  a  look 
in  his  eyes  which  I  understood.  Thereafter 
we  sailed  on,  with  no  word  in  the  boat  at  all. 

That  night,  a  dark,  rainy  night  it  was,  with 
an  uplift  wind  beating  high  over  against  the 
hidden  moon,  I  went  to  the  cottage  where 
Ivor  McLean  lived  with  his  old  deaf  mother, 
—  deaf  nigh  upon  twenty  years,  ever  since 
the  night  of  the  nights  when  she  heard  the 
women  whisper  that  Galium,  her  husband,  was 
among  the  drowned,  after  a  death-wind  had 
blown. 

When  I  entered,  he  was  sitting  before  the 
flaming  coal-fire ;  for  on  lona,  now,  by  de- 
cree of  MacCailin  Mor,  there  is  no  more  peat 
burned. 

"You  will  tell  me  now,  Ivor?"  was  all 
I  said. 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  be  telling  you  now.  And  the 
reason  why  I  did  not  tell  you  before  was 
because  it  is  not  a  wise  or  a  good  thing  to  tell 
ancient  stories  about  the  sea  while  still  on 
the  running  wave.  Macrae  should  not  have 
done  that  thing.  It  may  be  we  shall  suffer 
for  it  when  next  we  go  out  with  the  nets. 
We  were  to  go  to-night :  but  no,  not  I,  no, 
140 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

no,  for  sure,  not  for  all  the  herring  in  the 
Sound." 

"  Is  it  an  ancient  sgeul^  Ivor?  " 

"  Ay.  I  am  not  for  knowing  the  age  of 
these  things.  It  may  be  as  old  as  the  days 
of  the  F^inn  for  all  I  know.  It  has 
come  down  to  us.  Alasdair  MacAlasdair  of 
Tiree,  him  that  used  to  boast  of  having  all 
the  stories  of  Colum  and  Brighde,  it  was  he 
told  it  to  the  mother  of  my  mother,  and 
she  to  me." 

"What  is  it  called?" 

"Well,  this  and  that;  but  there  is  no 
harm  in  saying  it  is  called  the  Dark  Name- 
less One." 

"  The  Dark  Nameless  One  !  " 

"It  is  this  way.  But  will  you  ever  have 
been  hearing  of  the  MacOdrums  of  Uist?  " 

"Ay:  the  Sliochd-nan-r6n." 

"That  is  so.  God  knows.  The  Sliochd- 
nan-ron  ...  the  progeny  of  the  Seal.  .  .  . 
Well,  well,  no  man  knows  what  moves  in  the 
shadow  of  life.  And  now  I  will  be  telling 
you  that  old  ancient  tale,  as  it  was  given  to 
me  by  the  mother  of  my  mother." 


141 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

On  a  day  of  the  days,  Colum  was  walking 
alone  by  the  sea-shore.  The  monks  were  at 
the  hoe  or  the  spade,  and  some  milking  the 
kye,  and  some  at  the  fishing.  They  say  it 
was  on  the  first  day  of  the  Faoilleach 
Geatnhraidhy  the  day  that  is  called  Atn  fheill 
Brighde. 

The  holy  man  had  wandered  on  to  where 
the  rocks  are,  opposite  to  Soa.  He  was 
praying  and  praying,  and  it  is  said  that 
whenever  he  prayed  aloud,  the  barren  egg 
in  the  nest  would  quicken,  and  the  blighted 
bud  unfold,  and  the  butterfly  cleave  its 
shroud. 

Of  a  sudden  he  came  upon  a  great  black 
seal,  lying  silent  on  the  rocks,  with  wicked 
eyes. 

"  My  blessing  upon  you,  O  Ron,"  he  said 
with  the  good  kind  courteousness  that  was 
his. 

^^  Droch  spadadh  ort,''  answered  the  seal. 
"A  bad  end  to  you,  Colum  of  the  Gown." 

"Sure,  now,"  said  Colum  angrily,  "I  am 

knowing  by  that  curse  that  you  are  no  friend 

of  Christ,  but  of  the  evil  pagan  faith  out  of  the 

north.     For  here  I  am  known  ever  as  Colum 

142 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

the  White,  or  as  Colum  the  Saint :  and  it  is 
only  the  Picts  and  the  wanton  Normen  who 
deride  me  because  of  the  holy  white  robe 
I  wear." 

**Well,  well,"  replied  the  seal,  speaking 
the  good  Gaelic  as  though  it  were  the  tongue 
of  the  deep  sea,  as  God  knows  it  may  be 
for  all  you,  I,  or  the  blind  wind  can  say : 
"  Well,  well,  let  that  thing  be  :  it 's  a  wave- 
way  here  or  a  wave-way  there.  But  now  if 
it  is  a  Druid  you  are,  whether  of  Fire  or  of 
Christ,  be  telling  me  where  my  woman  is, 
and  where  my  little  daughter." 

At  this,  Colum  looked  at  him  for  a  long 
while.     Then  he  knew. 

"  It  is  a  man  you  were  once,  O  Ron  ?  " 

"  Maybe  ay  and  maybe  no." 

"And  with  that  thick  Gaelic  that  you 
have,  it  will  be  out  of  the  north  Isles  you 
come?  " 

"  That  is  a  true  thing." 

"  Now  I  am  for  knowing  at  last  who  and 
what  you  are.  You  are  one  of  the  race  of 
Odrum  the  Pagan." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  denying  it,  Colum.  And 
what  is  more,  I  am  Angus  MacOdrum, 
143 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

Aonghas  mac  Torcall  mhic  Odrum,  and  the 
name  I  am  known  by  is  Black  Angus." 

"A  fitting  name  too,"  said  Colum  the 
Holy,  "because  of  the  black  sin  in  your 
heart,  and  the  black  end  God  has  in  store 
for  you." 

At  that  Black  Angus  laughed. 

"Why  is  there  laughter  upon  you,  Man- 
Seal?" 

"  Well,  it  is  because  of  the  good  company 
I  '11  be  having.  But,  now,  give  me  the 
word  :  are  you  for  having  seen  or  heard  aught 
of  a  woman  called  Kirsteen  McVurich?" 

"Kirsteen  —  Kirsteen  —  that  is  the  good 
name  of  a  nun  it  is,  and  no  sea- wanton  !  " 

"  Oh,  a  name  here  or  a  name  there  is  soft 
sand.  And  so  you  cannot  be  for  telling  me 
where  my  woman  is?" 

"No." 

"Then  a  stake  for  your  belly,  and  the 
nails  through  your  hands,  thirst  on  your 
tongue,  and  the  corbies  at  your  eyne  ! " 

And,  with  that.  Black  Angus  louped  into 
the  green  water,  and  the  hoarse  wild  laugh 
of  him  sprang  into   the   air   and  fell  dead 
against  the  cliff  like  a  wind-spent  mew. 
144 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

Colum  went  slowly  back  to  the  brethren, 
brooding  deep.  "  God  is  good,"  he  said  in 
a  low  voice,  again  and  again ;  and  each  time 
that  he  spoke  there  came  a  fair  sweet  daisy  into 
the  grass,  or  a  yellow  bird  rose  up,  with  song 
to  it  for  the  first  time,  wonderful  and  sweet 
to  hear. 

As  he  drew  near  to  the  House  of  God,  he 
met  Murtagh,  an  old  monk  of  the  ancient 
old  race  of  the  isles. 

"  Who  is  Kirsteen  McVurich,  Murtagh  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"She  was  a  good  servant  of  Christ,  she 
was,  in  the  south  isles,  O  Colum,  till  Black 
Angus  won  her  to  the  sea." 

"  And  when  was  that?  " 

"  Nigh  upon  a  thousand  years  ago." 

At  that,  Colum  stared  in  amaze.  But 
Murtagh  was  a  man  of  truth,  nor  did  he 
speak  in  allegories.  "  Ay,  Colum  my  father, 
nigh  upon  a  thousand  years  ago." 

"But  can  mortal  sin  live  as  long  as 
that?" 

"  Ay,  it  endureth.  Long,  long  ago,  before 
Oisin  sang,  before  Fionn,  before  Cuchullin  was 
a  glorious  great  prince,  and  in  the  days  when 
10  145 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

the  Tuatha-De  Danann  were  sole  lords  in 
all  green  Banba,  Black  Angus  made  the 
woman  Kirsteen  McVurich  leave  the  place 
of  prayer  and  go  down  to  the  sea-shore,  and 
there  he  leaped  upon  her,  and  made  her  his 
prey,  and  she  followed  him  into  the  sea." 

"And  is  death  above  her  now?  " 

"  No.  She  is  the  woman  that  weaves  the 
sea-spells  at  the  wild  place  out  yonder  that 
is  known  as  Earraid  :  she  that  is  called  an- 
Cailleach-uisge,  the  sea-witch." 

"  Then  why  was  Black  Angus  for  the  seek- 
ing her  here  and  the  seeking  her  there? " 

"  It  is  the  Doom.  It  is  Adam's  first  wife 
she  is,  that  sea-witch  over  there,  where  the 
foam  is  ever  in  the  sharp  fangs  of  the  rocks." 

"  And  who  will  he  be?  " 

"  His  body  is  the  body  of  Angus  the  son 
of  Torcall  of  the  race  of  Odrum,  for  all  that 
a  seal  he  is  to  the  seeming;  but  the  soul 
of  him  is  Judas." 

"  Black  Judas,  Murtagh?  " 

"  Ay,  Black  Judas,  Colum." 

But  with  that,  Ivor  McLean  rose  abruptly 
from  before  the  fire,  saying  that  he  would 
146 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

speak  no  more  that  night.  And  truly  enough 
there  was  a  wild,  lone,  desolate  cry  in  the 
wind,  and  a  slapping  of  the  waves  one  upon 
the  other  with  an  eerie  laughing  sound,  and 
the  screaming  of  a  sea-mew  that  was  like  a 
human  thing. 

So  I  touched  the  shawl  of  his  mother,  who 
looked  up  with  startled  eyes  and  said,  "  God 
be  with  us ; "  and  then  I  opened  the  door, 
and  the  salt  smell  of  the  wrack  was  in  my 
nostrils,  and  the  great  drowning  blackness 
of  the  night. 


147 


THE   THREE   MARVELS   OF  HY 


149 


/.    THE  FESTIVAL   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

II     THE    SABBATH    OF    THE     FISHES 
AND   THE  FLIES. 

III.     THE  MOON-CHILD. 


150 


THE  THREE   MARVELS  OF  HY 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    BIRDS 

BEFORE  dawn,  on  the  morning  of  the 
hundredth  Sabbath  after  Colum  the 
White  had  made  glory  to  God  in  Hy,  that 
was  theretofore  called  loua  and  thereafter 
I-shona  and  is  now  lona,  the  Saint  beheld 
his  own  Sleep  in  a  vision. 

Much  fasting  and  long  pondering  over  the 
missals,  with  their  golden  and  azure  and 
sea-green  initials  and  earth-brown  branching 
letters,  had  made  Colum  weary.  He  had 
brooded  much  of  late  upon  the  mystery  of 
the  living  world  that  was  not  man's  world. 

On  the  eve  of  that  hundredth  Sabbath, 
which  was  to  be  a  holy  festival  in  lona,  he 
had  talked  long  with  an  ancient  graybeard 
out  of  a  remote  isle  in  the  north,  the  wild 
Isle  of  the  Mountains  where  Scathach  the 
151 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Queen  hanged  the  men  of  Lochlin  by  their 
yellow  hair. 

This  man's  name  was  Ardan,  and  he  was 
of  the  ancient  people.  He  had  come  to  Hy 
because  of  two  things.  Maolmor,  the  King 
of  the  northern  Picts,  had  sent  him  to  learn 
of  Colum  what  was  this  god-teaching  he  had 
brought  out  of  Eir6  :  and  for  himself  he  had 
come,  with  his  age  upon  him,  to  see  what 
manner  of  man  this  Colum  was,  who  had 
made  loua,  that  was  "  Innis-nan-Dhruidhn- 
each  "  —  the  Isle  of  the  Druids — into  a 
place  of  new  worship. 

For  three  hours  Ardan  and  Colum  had 
walked  by  the  sea-shore.  Each  learned  of 
the  other.  Ardan  bowed  his  head  before 
the  wisdom.  Colum  knew  in  his  heart  that 
the  Druid  saw  mysteries.  In  the  first  hour 
they  talked  of  God.  Colum  spake,  and 
Ardan  smiled  in  his  shadowy  eyes.  "  It  is  for 
the  knowing,"  he  said,  when  Colum  ceased. 

"  Ay,  sure,"  said  the  Saint :  "  and  now,  O 
Ardan  the  wise,  is  my  God  thy  God?  " 

But  at  that  Ardan  smiled  not.  He  turned 
the  grave,  sad  eyes  of  him  to  the  west.  With 
his  right  hand  he  pointed  to  the  Sun  that 
152 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

was  like  a  great  golden  flower.  "  Truly,  He 
is  thy  God  and  my  God."  Colum  was  silent. 
Then  he  said  :  "  Thee  and  thine,  O  Ardan, 
from  Maolmor  the  Pictish  king  to  the  least  of 
thy  slaves,  shall  have  a  long  weariness  in  Hell. 
That  fiery  globe  yonder  is  but  the  Lamp  of  the 
World :  and  sad  is  the  case  of  the  man  who 
knows  not  the  torch  from  the  torch-bearer." 

And  in  the  second  hour  they  talked  of 
Man.  Ardan  spake,  and  Colum  smiled  in  his 
deep,  gray  eyes. 

"It  is  for  laughter  that,"  he  said,  when 
Ardan  ceased. 

"  And  why  will  that  be,  O  Colum  of  Eir6  ?  " 
said  Ardan.  Then  the  smile  went  out  of 
Colum's  gray  eyes,  and  he  turned  and  looked 
about  him. 

He  beheld,  near,  a  crow,  a  horse,  and  a 
hound. 

"These  are  thy  brethren,"  he  said  scornfully. 

But  Ardan  answered  quietly,  "  Even  so." 

The  third  hour  they  talked  about  the 
beasts  of  the  earth  and  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

At  the  last   Ardan  said :     "  The    ancient 
wisdom  hath  it  that  these  are  the  souls  of  men 
and  women,  that  have  been,  or  are  to  be." 
153 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Whereat  Colum  answered :  "  The  new- 
wisdom,  that  is  old  as  eternity,  declareth 
that  God  created  all  things  in  love.  There- 
fore are  we  at  one,  O  Ardan,  though  we  sail  to 
the  Isle  of  Truth  from  the  West  and  the  East. 
Let  there  be  peace  between  us." 

"  Peace,"  said  Ardan. 

That  eve,  Ardan  of  the  Picts  sat  with  the 
monks  of  lona.  Colum  blessed  him  and  said 
a  saying.  Oran  of  the  Songs  sang  a  hymn 
of  beauty.  Ardan  rose,  and  put  the  wine  of 
guests  to  his  lips,  and  chanted  this  rune : 

O  Colum  and  monks  of  Christ, 
It  is  peace  we  are  having  this  night : 
Sure,  peace  is  a  good  thing. 
And  I  am  glad  with  the  gladness. 

We  worship  one  God, 
Though  ye  call  him  De  — 
And  I  say  not,  O  Dia  ! 
But  cry  Bea'uil ! 

For  it  is  one  faith  for  man, 
And  one  for  the  living  world, 
And  no  man  is  wiser  than  another  — 
And  none  knoweth  much. 

None  knoweth  a  better  thing  than  this  : 
The  Sword,  Love,  Song,  Honour,  Sleep. 
None  knoweth  a  surer  thing  than  this  : 
Birth,  Sorrow,  Pain,  Weariness,  Death. 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Sure,  peace  is  a  good  thing  ; 
Let  us  be  glad  of  Peace  : 
We  are  not  men  of  the  Sword, 
But  of  the  Rune  and  the  Wisdom. 

I  have  learned  a  truth  of  Colum, 
He  hath  learned  of  me  : 
All  ye  on  the  morrow  shall  see 
A  wonder  of  the  wonders. 

The  thought  is  on  you,  that  the  Cross 
Is  known  only  of  you : 
Lo,  I  tell  you  the  birds  know  it 
That  are  marked  with  the  Sorrow. 

Listen  to  the  Birds  of  Sorrow, 
They  shall  tell  you  a  great  Joy : 
It  is  Peace  you  will  be  having, 
With  the  Birds. 


No  more  would  Ardan  say  after  that, 
though  all  besought  him. 

Many  pondered  long  that  night.  Oran 
made  a  song  of  mystery.  Colum  brooded 
through  the  dark ;  but  before  dawn  he  slept 
upon  the  fern  that  strewed  his  cell.  At  dawn, 
with  waking  eyes,  and  weary,  he  saw  his  Sleep 
in  a  vision. 

It  stood  gray  and  wan  beside  him. 

"  What  art  thou,  O  Spirit?  "  he  said. 

155 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

« I  am  thy  Sleep,  Colum." 

"  And  is  it  peace?  " 

"It  is  peace." 

«  What  wouldest  thou  ?  " 

"  I  have  wisdom.  Thy  heart  and  thy 
brain  were  closed.  I  could  not  give  you 
what  I  brought.     I  brought  wisdom." 

"  Give  it." 

"  Behold ! " 

And  Colum,  sitting  upon  the  strewed  fern 
that  was  his  bed,  rubbed  his  eyes  that  were 
heavy  with  weariness  and  fasting  and  long 
prayer.  He  could  not  see  his  Sleep  now. 
It  was  gone,  as  smoke  that  is  licked  up  by 
the  wind. 

But  on  the  ledge  of  the  hole  that  was  in 
the  eastern  wall  of  his  cell  he  saw  a  bird. 
He  leaned  his  elbow  upon  the  leabhar-ai- 
frionn  that  was  by  his  side.^    Then  he  spoke. 

"  Is  there  song  upon  thee,  O  Bru-dhearg?  " 

Then  the  Redbreast  sang,  and  the  singing 
was  so  sweet  that  tears  came  into  the  eyes  of 
Colum,  and  he  thought  the  sunlight  that  was 

1  The  "  leabhar-aifrionn  "  (pron.  lyo-ur-eff-runn) 
is  a  missal :  literally  a  mass-book,  or  chapel-book. 
Bru-dhearg  is  literally  red-breast. 

156 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

streaming  from  the  east  was  melted  into  that 
lilting  sweet  song.  It  was  a  hymn  that  the 
Bru-dhearg  sang,  and  it  was  this : 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Christ  upon  the  Cross  ; 
My  little  nest  was  near, 

Hidden  in  the  moss. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Christ  was  pale  and  wan  : 
His  eyes  beheld  me  singing 

Bron,  Bron,  mo  Bron  !  i 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

"  Come  near,  O  wee  brown  bird  !  " 
Christ  spake  :  and  low  I  lighted 

Upon  the  Living  World. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

I  heard  the  mocking  scorn  ! 
But  Holy,  Holy,  Holy 

I  sang  against  a  thorn  ! 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Ah,  his  brow  was  bloody ; 
Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 
All  my  breast  was  ruddy. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Christ's-Bird  shalt  thou  be  : 
Thus  said  Mary  Virgin 

There  on  Calvary. 

1  "  O  my  Grief,  my  Grief  !  " 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

A  wee  brown  bird  am  I  ; 
But  my  breast  is  ruddy 

For  I  saw  Christ  die. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

By  this  ruddy  feather, 
Colum,  call  thy  monks,  and 

All  the  birds  together. 

And  at  that  Colum  rose.  Awe  was  upon 
him,  and  joy. 

He  went  out,  and  told  all  to  the  monks. 
Then  he  said  Mass  out  on  the  green  sward. 
The  yellow  sunshine  was  warm  upon  his  gray 
hair.  The  love  of  God  was  warm  in  his 
heart. 

"  Come,  all  ye  birds  !  "  he  cried. 

And  lo,  all  the  birds  of  the  air  flew  nigh. 
The  golden  eagle  soared  from  the  Cuchul- 
lins  in  far-off  Skye,  and  the  osprey  from  the 
wild  lochs  of  Mull ;  the  gannet  from  above 
the  clouds,  and  the  fulmar  and  petrel  from 
the  green  wave  :  the  cormorant  and  the  skua 
from  the  weedy  rock,  and  the  plover  and  the 
kestrel  from  the  machar :  the  corbie  and  the 
raven  from  the  moor,  and  the  snipe  and  the 
bittern  and  the  heron  :  the  cuckoo  and  cushat 

158 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

from  the  woodland ;  the  crane  from  the 
swamps,  the  lark  from  the  sky,  and  the 
mavis  and  the  merle  from  the  green  bushes : 
the  yellowyite,  the  shilfa,  and  the  Untie,  the 
gyalvonn  and  the  wren  and  the  redbreast,  one 
and  all,  every  creature  of  the  wings,  they 
came  at  the  bidding. 

"Peace  !  "  cried  Colum. 

"  Peace  ! "  cried  all  the  Birds,  and  even 
the  Eagle,  the  Kestrel,  the  Corbie,  and  the 
Raven  cried  Peace,  Peace  / 

"  I  will  say  the  Mass,"  said  Colum  the 
White. 

And  with  that  he  said  the  Mass.  And  he 
blessed  the  birds.  When  the  last  chant  was 
sung,  only  Bru-dhearg  remained. 

"  Come,  O  Ruddy-Breast,"  said  Colum, 
"and  sing  to  us  of  the  Christ." 

Through  a  golden  hour  thereafter  the  Red- 
breast sang.     Sweet  was  the  joy  of  it. 

At  the  end,  Colum  said  "  Peace  !  "  In 
the  Name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  Ghost." 

Thereat  Ardan  the  Pict  bowed  his  head, 
and  in  a  loud  voice  repeated  —  "  Sith  (shee)  ! 
159 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

An  ainm  an  Athar,  V  an  mhic,  ^s  an  Spioraid 
Naoimh  /" 

And  to  this  day  the  song  of  the  Birds  of 
Colum,  as  they  are  called  in  Hy,  is  Sith  —  Sith 

—  Sith  —  an  —  ainm  —  Chriosd —  "  Peace 

—  Peace  —  Peace  —  in  the  name  of  Christ  1 " 


1 60 


II 


THE    SABBATH    OF    THE    FISHES    AND     THE 
FLIES 

FOR  three  days  Colum  had  fasted,  save 
for  a  mouthful  of  meal  at  dawn,  a 
piece  of  rye-bread  at  noon,  and  a  mouthful 
of  dulse  and  spring-water  at  sundown.  On 
the  night  of  the  third  day,  Oran  and  Keir 
came  to  him  in  his  cell.  Colum  was  on  his 
knees,  lost  in  prayer.  There  was  no  sound 
there,  save  the  faint  whispered  muttering  of 
his  lips,  and  on  the  plastered  wall  the  weary 
buzzing  of  a  fly. 

"  Master  !  "  said  Oran  in  a  low  voice,  soft 
with  pity  and  awe,  "  Master  !  " 

But  Colum  took  no  notice.  His  lips  still 
moved,  and  the  tangled  hairs  below  his 
nether  lip  shivered  with  his  failing  breath. 

"Father  !  "  said  Keir,  tender  as  a  woman, 
"Father!" 

"  i6i 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Colum  did  not  turn  his  eyes  from  the 
wall.  The  fly  droned  his  drowsy  hum  upon 
the  rough  plaster.  It  crawled  wearily  for  a 
space,  then  stopped.  The  slow  hot  drone 
filled  the  cell. 

"Master,"  said  Oran,  "it  is  the  will  of 
the  brethren  that  you  break  your  fast.  You 
are  old,  and  God  has  your  glory.  Give  us 
peace." 

"  Father,"  urged  Keir,  seeing  that  Colum 
kneeled  unnoticingly,  his  lips  still  moving 
above  his  black  beard,  with  the  white  hair 
of  him  falling  about  his  head  like  a  snow- 
drift slipping  from  a  boulder.  "  Father,  be 
pitiful !  We  hunger  and  thirst  for  your  pre- 
sence. We  can  fast  no  longer,  yet  have  we 
no  heart  to  break  our  fast  if  you  are  not 
with  us.  Come,  holy  one,  and  be  of  our 
company,  and  eat  of  the  good  broiled  fish 
that  awaiteth  us.  We  perish  for  the  bene- 
diction of  thine  eyes." 

Then  it  was  that  Colum  rose,  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  wall. 

"  Little  black  beast,"  he  said  to  the  fly 
that  droned  its  drowsy  hum  and  moved  not 
at  all;  "little  black  beast,  sure  it  is  well  I 
162 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

am  knowing  what  you  are.  You  are  think- 
ing you  are  going  to  get  my  blessing,  you 
that  have  come  out  of  hell  for  the  soul  of 
me!" 

At  that  the  fly  flew  heavily  from  the  wall, 
and  slowly  circled  round  and  round  the  head 
of  Colum  the  White. 

**What  think  you  of  that,  brother  Oran, 
brother  Keir?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice, 
hoarse  because  of  his  long  fast  and  the 
weariness  that  was  upon  him. 

"  It  is  a  fiend,"  said  Oran. 

"  It  is  an  angel,"  said  Keir. 

Thereupon  the  fly  settled  upon  the  wall 
again,  and  again  droned  his  drowsy  hot  hum. 

"Little  black  beast,"  said  Colum,  with  the 
frown  coming  down  into  his  eyes,  "  is  it  for 
peace  you  are  here,  or  for  sin?  Answer,  I 
conjure  you  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost ! " 

*' An  ain?n  a?i  Athar,^s  an  Mhic,  ^s  an 
Spioraid  Naoimhf^  repeated  Oran  below  his 
breath. 

"^«  ainm  an  Athar^  ^s  an  Alhic,  's  a?i 
Spioraid  Naoimh,"  repeated  Keir  below  his 
breath. 

163 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Then  the  fly  that  was  upon  the  wall  flew 
up  to  the  roof  and  circled  to  and  fro.  And 
it  sang  a  beautiful  song,  and  its  song  was  this  : 


Praise  be  to  God,  and  a  blessing  too  at  that,  and  a 
blessing ! 

For  Colum  the  White,  Colum  the  Dove,  hath  wor- 
shipped ; 

Yea,  he  hath  worshipped  and  made  of  a  desert  a 
garden, 

And  out  of  the  dung  of  men's  souls  hath  made  a 
sweet  savour  of  burning. 

II 

A  savour  of  burning,  most  sweet,  a  fire  for  the  altar, 
This  he  hath  made  in  the  desert ;  the  hell-saved  all 

gladden. 
Sure  he  hath  put  his  benison,  too,  on  milch-cow  and 

bullock. 
On  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  the  man-eyed  seals,  and 

the  otter. 

Ill 

But  where  in  his  Dlln  in  the  great  blue  mainland  of 

Heaven 
God  the  All-Father  broodeth,  where  the  harpers  are 

harping  his  glory ; 
There  where  He  sitteth,  where  a  river  of  ale  poureth 

ever, 
His  great  sword  broken,  His  spear  in  the  dust.  He 

broodeth. 

164 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

IV 

And  this  is  the  thought  that  moves  in  his  brain,  as  a 

cloud  filled  with  thunder 
Moves  through  the  vast  hollow  sky  filled  with  the 

dust  of  the  stars  : 
What  boots  it  the  glory  of  Colum,  since  he  maketh  a 

Sabbath  to  bless  me, 
And  hath  no  thought  of  my  sons  in  the  deeps  of  the 

air  and  the  sea  ? 

And  with  that  the  fly  passed  from  their 
vision.  In  the  cell  vi^as  a  most  wondrous 
sweet  song,  like  the  sound  of  far-off  pipes 
over  water. 

Oran  said  in  a  low  voice  of  awe,  "  O  our 
God  ! " 

Keir  whispered,  white  with  fear,  **  O  God, 
my  God  ! " 

But  Colum  rose,  and  took  a  scourge  from 
where  it  hung  on  the  wall.  "  It  shall  be  for 
peace,  Oran,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile 
flitting  like  a  bird  above  the  nest  of  his  black 
beard ;  *'  it  shall  be  for  peace,  Keir  !  " 

And  with  that  he  laid  the  scourge  heavily 

upon  the  bent  backs  of  Keir  and  Oran,  nor 

stayed  his  hand,  nor  let  his  three  days'  fast 

weaken  the  deep  piety  that  was  in  the  might 

165 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

of  his  arm,  and  because  of  the  glory  to 
God. 

Then,  when  he  was  weary,  peace  came 
into  his  heart,  and  he  sighed  ^^Amenr^ 

"Amen  !  "  said  Oran  the  monk. 

"Amen  !"  said  Keir  the  monk. 

"And  this  thing  hath  been  done,"  said 
Colum,  "  because  of  the  evil  wish  of  you  and 
the  brethren,  that  I  should  break  my  fast, 
and  eat  of  fish,  till  God  willeth  it.  And  lo, 
I  have  learned  a  mystery.  Ye  shall  all  wit- 
ness to  it  on  the  morrow,  which  is  the 
Sabbath." 

That  night  the  monks  wondered  much. 
Only  Oran  and  Keir  cursed  the  fishes  in  the 
deeps  of  the  sea  and  the  flies  in  the  deeps 
of  the  air. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  sun  was  yellow 
on  the  brown  sea-weed,  and  there  was  peace 
on  the  isle  and  upon  the  waters,  Colum  and 
the  brotherhood  went  slowly  towards  the  sea. 

At  the  meadows  that  are  close  to  the  sea, 
the  Saint  stood  still.     All  bowed  their  heads. 

"  O  winged  things  of  the  air,"  cried  Colum, 
"  draw  near  !  " 

With  that  the  air  was  full  of  the  hum  of 
i66 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

innumerous  flies,  midges,  bees,  wasps,  moths, 
and  all  winged  insects.  These  settled  upon 
the  monks,  who  moved  not,  but  praised  God 
in  silence.  ''  Glory  and  praise  to  God," 
cried  Colum,  "  behold  the  Sabbath  of  the 
children  of  God  that  inhabit  the  deeps  of  the 
air  !     Blessing  and  peace  be  upon  them." 

"  Peace  !  Peace  !  "  cried  the  monks,  with 
one  voice. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost !  "  cried  Colum  the  White, 
glad  because  of  the  glory  to  God. 

"  An  ainm  an  Athar,  'j  ati  Mhic,  *s  an 
Spioraid Naoimhj'  cried  the  monks,  bowing 
reverently,  and  Oran  and  Keir  deepest  of 
all,  because  they  saw  the  fly  that  was  of 
Colum's  cell  leading  the  whole  host,  as 
though  it  were  their  captain,  and  singing  to 
them  a  marvellous  sweet  song. 

Oran  and  Keir  testified  to  this  thing,  and 
all  were  full  of  awe  and  wonder,  and  Colum 
praised  God. 

Then   the   Saints    and    the    brotherhood 
moved  onward  and   went   upon  the  rocks. 
When  all  stood  ankle-deep  in  the  sea-weed 
that  was  swaying  in  the  tide,  Colum  cried : 
167 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

"O  finny  creatures  of  the  deep,  draw 
near !  " 

And  with  that  the  whole  sea  shimmered  as 
with  silver  and  gold. 

All  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  and  the  great 
eels,  and  the  lobsters  and  the  crabs,  came  in 
a  swift  and  terrible  procession.  Great  was 
the  glory. 

Then  Colum  cried,  "  O  fishes  of  the  Deep, 
who  is  your  king?  " 

Whereupon  the  herring,  the  mackerel,  and 
the  dog-fish  swam  forward,  and  each  claimed 
to  be  king.  But  the  echo  that  ran  from 
wave  to  wave  said,  The  Herring  is  King, 

Then  Colum  said  to  the  mackerel :  "  Sing 
the  song  that  is  upon  you  !  " 

And  the  mackerel  sang  the  song  of  the 
wild  rovers  of  the  sea,  and  the  lust  of 
pleasure. 

Then  Colum  said,  ^^  But  for  God's  mercy, 
I  would  curse  you,  O  false  fish." 

Then  he  spake  likewise  to  the  dog-fish : 
and  the  dog-fish  sang  of  slaughter  and  the 
chase,  and  the  joy  of  blood. 

And  Colum  said :  "  Hell  shall  be  your 
portion." 

i68 


The  Three   Marvels  of  Hy 

And  there  was  peace.  And  the  Herring 
said  : 

'*  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost !  " 

Whereat  all  that  mighty  multitude,  ere 
they  sank  into  the  deep,  waved  their  fins  and 
their  claws,  each  after  his  kind,  and  repeated 
as  with  one  voice  : 

"  An  ainin  an  Aihar^  's  an  Mhic^  ^s  an 
Spioraid  Naoinih  /" 

And  the  glory  that  was  upon  the  Sound  of 
lona  was  as  though  God  trailed  a  starry  net 
upon  the  waters,  with  a  shining  star  in  every 
Httle  hollow,  and  a  flowing  moon  of  gold  on 
every  wave. 

Then  Colum  the  White  put  out  both  his 
arms,  and  blessed  the  children  of  God  that 
are  in  the  deeps  of  the  sea  and  that  are  in 
the  deeps  of  the  air. 

That  is  how  Sabbath  came  upon  all  living 
things  upon  Hy  that  is  called  lona,  and 
within  the  air  above  Hy,  and  within  the  sea 
that  is  around  Hy. 

And  the  glory  is  Colum's. 


169 


Ill 

THE     MOON-CHILD. 

A  YEAR  and  a  day  before  God  bade 
Colum  arise  to  the  Feast  of  Eternity, 
Pol  the  Freckled,  the  youngest  of  the  brethren, 
came  to  him,  on  a  night  of  the  nights. 

"  The  moon  is  among  the  stars,  O  Colum. 
By  his  own  will,  and  yours,  old  Murtagh  that 
is  this  day  with  God,  is  to  be  laid  in  the  deep 
dry  sand  at  the  east  end  of  the  isle." 

So  the  holy  Saint  rose  from  his  bed  of 
weariness,  and  went  and  blessed  the  place 
that  Murtagh  lay  in,  and  bade  neither  the 
creeping  worm  nor  any  other  creature  to  touch 
the  sacred  dead.  "  Let  God  only,"  he  said, 
"  let  God  alone  strip  that  which  he  made  to 
grow." 

But  on  his  way  back  sleep  passed  from  him. 
The  sweet  salt  smell  of  the  sea  was  in  his 
nostrils ;  he  heard  the  running  of  a  wave  in 
all  his  blood. 

170 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

At  the  cells  he  turned,  and  bade  the  brethren 
go  in.  "Peace  be  with  you,"  he  sighed 
wearily. 

Then  he  moved  downwards  to  the  sea. 

A  great  tenderness,  of  late,  was  upon 
Colum  the  Bishop.  Ever  since  he  had  blessed 
the  fishes  and  the  flies,  the  least  of  the  chil- 
dren of  God,  his  soul  had  glowed  in  a  whiter 
flame.  There  were  deep  seas  of  compassion 
in  his  gray-blue  eyes.  One  night  he  had 
waked,  because  God  was  there. 

"O  Christ,"  he  cried,  bowing  low  his  old 
gray  head.  "  Sure,  ah  sure,  the  gladness  and 
the  joy,  because  of  the  hour  of  the  hours." 

But  God  said :  "  Not  so,  Colum,  who 
keepest  me  upon  the  Cross.  It  is  Murtagh, 
Murtagh  the  druid  that  was,  whose  soul  I  am 
taking  to  the  glory." 

With  that  Colum  rose  in  awe  and  great 
grief.  There  was  no  light  in  his  cell.  In 
the  deep  darkness,  his  spirit  quailed.  But 
lo,  the  beauty  of  his  heart  wrought  a  soft 
gleam  about  him,  and  in  that  moonshine  of 
good  deeds  he  rose  and  made  his  way  to 
where  Murtagh  slept. 

The  old  monk  slept  indeed.  It  was  a 
171 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

sweet  breath  he  drew  —  he,  young  and  fair 
now,  and  laughing  with  peace  under  the 
apples  in  Paradise. 

"O  Murtagh,"  Colum cried,  "and  thee  I 
thought  the  least  of  the  brethren,  because 
that  thou  wast  a  druid,  and  loved  not  to  see 
thy  pagan  kindred  put  to  the  sword  if  they 
would  not  repent.  But,  true,  in  my  years  I 
am  becoming  as  a  boy  who  learns,  knowing 
nothing.  God  wash  the  sin  of  pride  out  of 
my  life  !  " 

At  that  a  soft  white  shining,  as  of  one 
winged  and  beautiful,  stood  beside  the  dead. 

"Art  thou  Murtagh  ?  "  whispered  Colum, 
in  deep  awe. 

"  No,  I  am  not  Murtagh,"  came  as  the 
breath  of  vanishing  song. 

"What  art  thou?" 

"  I  am  Peace,"  said  the  glory. 

Thereupon  Colum  sank  to  his  knees,  sob- 
bing with  joy,  for  the  sorrow  that  had  been 
and  was  no  more. 

"  Tell  me,  O  White  Peace,"  he  murmured, 
"  can  Murtagh  hearken  there  under  the 
apples,    where  God  is?" 

"  God's  love  is  a  wind  that  blows  hither- 
172 


The  Three   Marvels  of  Hy 

ward  and  hence.  Speak,  and  thou  shalt 
hear." 

Colum  spake.  "  O  Murtagh  my  brother, 
tell  me  in  what  way  it  is  that  I  still  keep  God 
crucified  upon  the  Cross." 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  cell  as  of  the 
morning-laughter  of  children,  of  the  singing 
of  birds,  of  the  sunlight  streaming  through 
the  blue  fields  of  Heaven. 

Then  Murtagh's  voice  came  out  of  Para- 
dise, sweet  with  the  sweetness  :  honey-sweet 
it  was,  and  clothed  with  deep  awe  because 
of  the  glory. 

"  Colum,  servant  of  Christ,  arise  !  " 

Colum  rose,  and  was  as  a  leaf  there,  a 
leaf  that  is  in  the  wind. 

"  Colum,  thine  hour  has  not  yet  come.  I 
see  it,  bathing  in  the  white  light  which  is  the 
Pool  of  Eternal  Life,  that  is  in  the  abyss 
where  deep-rooted  are  the  Gates  of  Heaven." 

"  And  my  sin,  O  Murtagh,  my  sin?  " 

"  God  is  weary  because  thou  hast  not 
repented." 

"  O  my  God  and  my  God  !  Sure, 
Murtagh,  if  that  is  so,  it  is  so,  but  it  is  not  for 
knowledge  to  me.  Sure,  O  God,  it  is  a 
173 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

blessing  I  have  put  on  man  and  woman,  on 
beast  and  bird  and  fish,  on  creeping  things 
and  flying  things,  on  the  green  grass  and  the 
brown  earth  and  the  flowing  wave,  on  the 
wind  that  cometh  and  goeth,  and  on  the 
mystery  of  the  flame  !  Sure,  O  God,  I  have 
sorrowed  for  all  my  sins  :  there  is  not  one  I 
have  not  fasted  and  prayed  for.  Sorrow  up- 
on me  !  —  Is  it  accursed  I  am,  or  what  is  the 
evil  that  holdeth  me  by  the  hand?  " 

Then  Murtagh,  calling  through  sweet 
dreams  and  the  rainbow-rain  of  happy  tears 
that  make  that  place  so  wondrous  and  so 
fair,  spake  once  more : 

"  O  Colum,  blind  art  thou.  Hast  thou 
yet  repented  because  that  after  thou  didst 
capture  the  great  black  seal,  that  is  a  man 
under  spells,  thou,  with  thy  monks,  didst 
crucify  him  upon  the  great  rock  at  the  place 
where,  long  ago,  thy  coracle  came  ashore?  " 

"  O  Murtagh,  favoured  of  God,  will  you 
not  be  explaining  to  Him  that  is  King  of  the 
Elements,  that  this  was  because  the  seal  who 
was  called  Black  Angus  wrought  evil  upon  a 
mortal  woman,  and  that  of  the  sea-seed  was 
sprung  one  who  had  no  soul?  " 
174 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

But  no  answer  came  to  that,  and  when 
Colum  looked  about  him,  behold  there  was 
no  soft  shining,  but  only  the  body  of  Mur- 
tagh  the  old  monk.  With  a  heavy  heart,  and 
his  soul  like  a  sinking  boat  in  a  sea  of  pain, 
he  turned  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

A  fine,  wonderful  night  it  was.  The  moon 
lay  low  above  the  sea,  and  all  the  flowing 
gold  and  flashing  silver  of  the  rippling  run- 
ning water  seemed  to  be  a  flood  going  that 
way  and  falling  into  the  shining  hollow 
splendour. 

Through  the  sea-weed  the  old  Saint  moved, 
weary  and  sad.  When  he  came  to  a  sandy 
place  he  stopped.  There,  on  a  rock,  he  saw 
a  little  child.  Naked  she  was,  though  clad 
with  soft  white  moonlight.  In  her  hair  were 
brown  weeds  of  the  sea,  gleaming  golden 
because  of  the  glow.  In  her  hands  was  a 
great  shell,  and  at  that  shell  v/as  her  mouth. 
And  she  was  singing  this  song ;  passing  sweet 
to  hear,  it  was,  with  the  sea-music  that  was 

in  it : 

A  little  lonely  child  am  I 

That  have  not  any  soul : 
God  made  me  but  a  homeless  wave. 

Without  a  goal. 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

A  seal  my  father  was,  a  seal 

That  once  was  man  : 
My  mother  loved  him  tho'  he  was 

'Neath  mortal  ban. 

He  took  a  wave  and  drowned  her, 
She  took  a  wave  and  lifted  him : 

And  I  was  born  where  shadows  are 
I'  the  sea-depths  dim. 

All  through  the  sunny  blue-sweet  hours 
I  swim  and  glide  in  waters  green ; 

Never  by  day  the  mournful  shores 
By  me  are  seen. 

But  when  the  gloom  is  on  the  wave 
A  shell  unto  the  shore  I  bring : 

And  then  upon  the  rocks  I  sit 
And  plaintive  sing. 

O  what  is  this  wild  song  I  sing. 
With  meanings  strange  and  dim  ? 

No  soul  am  I,  a  wave  am  I, 

And  sing  the  Moon-Child's  hymn. 


Softly  Colum  drew  nigh. 

"  Peace,"    he    said.     "  Peace,    little   one. 
Ah,  tender  little  heart,  peace  !  " 

The  child  looked  at  him  with  wide  sea- 
dusky  eyes. 

"  Is  it  Colum  the  Holy  you  will  be  ?  " 
176 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

"  No,  my  fawn,  my  white  dear  babe  :  it  is 
not  Colum  the  Holy  I  am,  but  Colum  the 
poor  fool  that  knew  not  God ! " 

"  Is  it  you,  O  Colum,  that  put  the  sorrow 
on  my  mother,  who  is  the  Sea-woman  that 
lives  in  the  whirlpool  over  there?" 

"  Ay,  God  forgive  me  !  " 

"Is  it  you,  O  Colum,  that  crucified  the 
seal  that  was  my  father  :  him  that  was  a  man 
once,  and  that  was  called  Black  Angus?" 

"  Ay,  God  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Is  it  you,  O  Colum,  that  bade  the  chil- 
dren of  Hy  run  away  from  me,  because  I 
was  a  moon-child,  and  might  win  them  by 
the  sea-spell  into  the  green  wave?" 

"Ay,  God  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Sure,  dear  Colum,  it  was  to  the  glory  of 
God,  it  was?" 

"Ay,  he  knoweth  it,  and  can  hear  it,  too, 
from  Murtagh,  who  died  this  night." 

"Look!" 

And  at  that  Colum  looked,  and  in  a  moon- 
gold  wave  he  saw  Black  Angus,  the  seal- man, 
drifting  dark,  and  the  eyes  in  his  round  head 
were  the  eyes  of  love.  And  beside  the  man- 
seal  swam  a  woman  fair  to  see,  and  she 
12  177 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

looked  at  him  with  joy,  and  with  joy  at  the 
Moon-Child  that  was  her  own,  and  at  Colum. 
with  joy. 

Thereupon  Colum  fell  upon  his  knees  and 
cried,  — 

"  Give  me  thy  sorrow,  wild  woman  of  the 
sea ! " 

**  Peace  to  you,  Colum,"  she  answered,  and 
sank  into  the  shadow-thridden  wave. 

"Give  me  thy  death  and  crucifixion,  O 
Angus- dhu  ! "  cried  the  Saint,  shaking  with 
the  sorrow. 

"Peace  to  you,  Colum,"  answered  the 
man- seal,  and  sank  into  the  dusky  quietudes 
of  the  deep. 

"  Ah,  bitter  heart  o'  me  !  Teach  me  the 
way  to  God,  O  little  child,"  cried  Colum  the 
old,  turning  to  where  the  Moon- Child  was  ! 

But  lo,  the  glory  and  the  wonder ! 

It  was  a  little  naked  child  that  looked  at 
him  with  healing  eyes,  but  there  were  no  sea- 
weeds in  her  hair,  and  no  shell  in  the  little 
wee  hands  of  her.  For  now,  it  was  a  male 
Child  that  was  there,  shining  with  a  light 
from  within  :  and  in  his  fair  sunny  hair  was  a 

178 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

shadowy  crown  of  thorns,  and  in  his  hand  was 
a  pearl  of  great  price. 

"  O  Christ,  my  God,"  said  Colum,  with 
failing  voice. 

"It  is  thine  now,  O  Colum,"  said  the 
Moon-Child,  holding  out  to  him  the  shining 
pearl  of  great  price. 

"  What  is  it,  O  Lord  my  God  ?  "  whispered 
the  old  servant  of  God  that  was  now  glad 
with  the  gladness  :  "  what  is  this,  thy  boon?  " 

«  Perfect  Peace." 

And  that  is  alL 
{To  God  be  the  Glory.     Amen,) 


179 


THE    ANNIR-CHOILLE 


i8i 


THE   ANNIR-CHOILLE 

WHEN  Cathal  mac  Art,  that  was  called 
Cathal  Gille-Muire,  Cathal  the  Ser- 
vant of  Mary,  walked  by  the  sea,  one  night 
of  the  nights  in  a  green  May,  there  was 
trouble  in  his  heart. 

It  was  not  long  since  he  had  left  lona. 
The  good  St.  Colum,  in  sending  the  youth  to 
the  Isle  of  A-rinn,  as  it  was  then  called,  gave 
him  a  writing  for  St.  Molios,  the  holy  man 
who  lived  in  the  sea-cave  of  the  small  Isle 
of  the  Peak,  that  is  in  the  eastward  hollow  at 
the  south  end  of  Arran.  A  sorrow  it  was  to 
him  to  leave  the  fair  isle  in  the  west.  He 
had  kno^vn  glad  years  there  —  since,  in  one 
of  the  remote  isles  to  the  north,  he  had  seen 
his  father  slain  by  a  man  of  Lochlin,  and  his 
mother  carried  away  in  a  galley  oared  by 
fierce  yellow-haired  men.  No  kith  or  kin 
had  he  but  the  old  priest,  that  was  the 
brother  of  his  father,  Cathal  Gille-Chriosd, 
Cathal  the  Servant  of  Christ. 
183 


The  Annlr-Choille 

On  lona  he  had  learned  the  way  of  Christ. 
He  had  a  white  robe;  and  could,  with  a 
shaven  stick  and  a  thin  tuft  of  seal- fur,  or 
with  the  feather- quill  of  a  wild  swan  or  a 
solander,  write  the  holy  words  upon  strained 
lambskin  or  parchment,  and  fill  the  big  letters, 
that  were  here  and  there,  with  earth-brown 
and  sky-blue  and  shining  green,  with  scarlet 
of  blood  and  gold  of  sun-warm  sands.  He 
could  sing  the  long  holy  hymns,  too,  that 
Colum  loved  to  hear;  and  it  was  his  voice 
that  had  the  sweetest  clear-call  of  any  on  the 
island.  He  was  in  the  nineteenth  year  of 
his  years  when  a  Frankish  prince,  who  had 
come  to  lona  for  the  blessing  of  the  Saint, 
wanted  him  to  go  back  with  him  to  the 
Southlands.  He  promised  many  things  be- 
cause of  that  voice.  Cathal  dreamed  often, 
in  the  hot  drowsy  afternoons  of  the  month 
that  followed,  of  the  long  white  sword  that 
would  slay  so  well ;  and  of  the  white  money 
that  might  be  his  to  buy  fair  apparel  with, 
and  a  great  black  stallion  accoutred  with 
trappings  wrought  with  gold,  and  a  bed  of 
down ;  and  of  white  hands,  and  white  breasts, 
and  the  white  song  of  youth. 
184 


The  Annir-Choille 

He  had  not  gone  with  the  Frankish  prince, 
nor  wished  to  go.  But  he  dreamed  often. 
It  was  on  a  day  of  dream  that  he  lay  on  his 
back  in  the  hot  grass  upon  a  dune,  near 
where  the  cells  of  the  monks  were.  The  sun- 
glow  bathed  the  isle  in  a  golden  haze.  The 
strait  was  a  shimmering  dazzle,  and  the  blue 
wavelets  that  made  curves  in  the  soft  white 
sand  seem  to  spill  gold  flakes  and  change 
them  straightway  into  little  jets  of  foam  or 
bubbles  of  rainbow- spray.  Cathal  had  made 
a  song  for  his  delight.  His  pain  was  less 
when  he  had  made  it.  Now,  lying  there, 
and  dreaming  at  times  of  the  words  of  the 
Frankish  prince,  and  remembering  at  times 
the  stranger  words  of  the  old  pagan  helot, 
Neis,  who  had  come  with  him  out  of  the 
north,  he  felt  fire  burn  in  his  veins,  and  he 
sang : 

O  where  in  the  north,  or  where  in  the  south,  or  where 

in  the  east  or  west 
Is  she  who   hath  the  flower-white  hands   and  the 

swandown  breast  ? 
O,  if  she  be  west,  or  east  she  be,  or  in  the  north 

or  south, 
A  sword  will  leap,  a  horse  will  prance,  ere  I  win  to 

Honey-Mouth. 

•85 


The  Annir-Choille 

She  has  great  eyes,  like  the  doe  on  the  hill,  and 
warm  and  sweet  she  is, 

O,  come  to  me,  Honey-Mouth,  bend  to  me,  Honey- 
Mouth,  give  me  thy  kiss  I 

WhHe  Hands  her  name  is,  where  she  reigns  amid  the 

princes  fair  : 
White    hands    she   moves    like  swimming    swans 

athrough  her  dusk-wave  hair: 
White  hands  she  puts  about  my  heart,  white  hands 

fan  up  my  breath  : 
White  hands  take  out  the  heart  of  me,  and  grant  me 

life  or  death  1 

White  hands  make  better  songs  than  hymns,  white 

hands  are  young  and  sweet : 
O,  a  sword  for  me,  O  Honey-Mouth,  and  a  war-horse 

fleet  1 

O  wild  sweet  eyes !  O  glad  wild  eyes  I  O  mouth, 
how  sweet  it  is  I 

O,  come  to  me,  Honey-Mouth !  bend  to  me,  Honey- 
Mouth  1  give  me  thy  kiss  I 

When  he  had  ceased  he  saw  a  shadow  fall 
upon  the  white  sand  beyond  the  dune.  He 
looked  up,  and  beheld  Colum  the  Saint. 

''Who  taught  you  that  song?"  said  the 
white  holy  one,  in  a  voice  hard  and  stem. 

"  No  one,  O  Colum." 

"Then  the  Evil  One  is  indeed  here. 
Cathal,  I  promised  that  you  would  be  having 
i86 


The  Annir-Choille 

a  holy  name  soon,  but  that  name  I  will  not 
be  giving  you  now.  You  must  come  to  me 
in  sackcloth  and  with  dust  upon  your  head, 
with  pain  upon  you,  and  with  deep  grief  in 
your  heart.  Then  only  shall  I  bless  you 
before  the  brothers  and  call  you  Cathal  Gille- 
Mhoire,  Cathal  the  servant  of  Mary." 

A  bitter,  sad  waiting  it  was  for  him  who 
had  fire  in  his  young  blood  and  was  told  to 
weave  frost  there,  and  to  put  silence  upon 
the  welling  song  in  his  heart.  But  at  the 
end  of  the  week  Cathal  was  a  holy  monk 
again,  and  sang  the  hymns  that  Colum  had 
taught  him. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  day  when  Colum 
blessed  him  before  the  brethren,  and  called 
him  Gille-Muire,  that  he  walked  alone,  brood- 
ing upon  the  evil  of  women  and  the  curse 
they  brought,  and  praying  to  Mary  to  save 
him  from  the  sins  of  which  he  scarce  knew 
the  meaning.  On  his  way  back  to  his  cell 
he  passed  old  Neis,  the  helot,  who  said  to 
him  mockingly : 

**  It  is  a  good  thing  that  sorrow,  Cathal 
mac  Art,  —  and  yet,  sure,  it  is  true  that  but 
for  the  hot  love  the  slain  man  your  father 

187 


The  Annir-Choille 

had  for  Foam  that  was  your  mother,  you 
would  not  be  here  to  praise  your  God  or 
serve  the  woman  whom  the  arch-druid  yon- 
der says  is  the  Mother  of  God." 

Cathal  bade  the  man  eat  silence,  or  it 
would  go  ill  with  him.  But  the  words 
rankled.  That  night  in  his  cell  he  woke, 
with  on  his  lips  his  own  sinful  words : 

White  hands  make  better  songs  than  hymns,  white 
hands  are  young  and  sweet  ; 

O,  a  sword  for  me,  O  Honey-Mouth,  and  a  war- 
horse  fleet  1 

On  the  morrow  he  went  to  Colum  and 
told  him  that  the  Evil  One  would  not  give 
him  peace.  That  night  the  Saint  bade  him 
make  ready  to  go  east  to  the  Isle  of  Arran 
—  the  sole  isle,  then,  where  the  Pictish  folk 
would  let  the  white  robes  of  the  Culdees  go 
scatheless.  To  the  holy  Molios  he  was  to 
go,  him  that  dwelled  in  the  sea-cave  of  the 
Isle  of  the  Peak,  that  men  already  called  the 
Holy  Isle  because  of  the  preaching  and  the 
miracles  of  Molios. 

"  He  is  a  wise  man,"  said  Colum  to  him- 
self, "and  he  was  a  pagan  Cruithne  once, 
1 88 


The  Annir-Choille 

and  a  prince  at  that,  and  he  knows  the 
sweetness  of  sin,  and  will  keep  Cathal  away 
from  the  snares  that  are  set.  With  fasting, 
and  much  peril  by  day  and  weariness  by 
night,  the  blood  of  the  youth  will  forget  the 
songs  the  Evil  One  has  put  into  his  mind  and 
it  will  sing  holy  hymns.  Great  will  be  the 
glory.  Cathal  Gille-Muire  will  be  a  holy 
man  while  he  has  yet  his  youth  upon  him ; 
and  he  will  be  a  martyr  to  the  flesh  by  day 
and  by  night  and  by  night  and  by  day,  till 
the  heathen  put  him  to  death  because  of 
the  faith  that  is  his." 

Thus  it  was  that  Cathal  was  blessed  by 
Colum,  and  sent  east  among  the  wild  Picts. 

It  was  with  joy  that  he  served  Molios. 
For  four  months  he  gave  him  all  he  had  to 
give.  The  old  saint  passed  word  to  Colum 
that  Cathal  was  a  saint  and  was  assured  of 
the  crown  of  martyrdom,  and  lovingly  he 
urged  that  the  youth  should  be  sent  to  the 
Isle  of  Mist  in  the  north,  the  great  isle  that 
was  ruled  by  Scathach  the  Queen.  There, 
at  the  last  Summer-sailing,  the  pagans  had 
flayed  a  monk  alive.  A  fair  happy  end : 
and  Cathal  was  now  worthy  —  and  withal 
189 


The  Annir-Choille 

might  triumph,  and  might  even  convert  the 
heathen  queen.  "  She  is  wondrous  fair  to 
see,"  he  added,  "  and  Cathal  is  a  comely 
youth." 

But  Colum  had  answered  that  the  young 
monk  was  to  bide  where  he  was,  and  to  seek 
to  win  souls  in  the  pagan  Isle  of  Arran, 
where  the  Cross  was  still  feared. 

But  with  the  coming  of  May  and  golden 
weather,  the  blood  of  Cathal  grew  warm. 
At  times,  even,  he  dreamed  of  the  Frankish 
prince  and  the  evil  sweet  words  he  had  said. 

Then  a  day  of  the  days  came.  Molios 
and  Cathal  went  to  a  hill- dun  where  the  Pict 
chieftain  lived,  and  converted  him  and  all 
the  people  in  the  dun  and  all  in  the  rath 
that  was  beyond  the  dun.  That  eve  the 
daughter  of  the  warrior  came  upon  Cathal 
walking  in  a  solitary  place,  among  the  green 
pines  beyond  the  rath.  She  was  most  sweet 
to  look  upon  :  tall  and  fair,  with  eyes  like 
the  sea  in  a  cloudless  noon,  and  hair  like 
westward  wheat  turned  back  upon  itself. 

"  What   is   the   name   men   call   you  by, 
young  druid?"  she  said.     **  I  am  Ardanna, 
the  daughter  of  Ecta." 
190 


The  Annir-Choille 

"  Your  beauty  is  sweet  to  look  upon,  Ard- 
anna.  I  am  Cathal  the  son  of  Art  the  son 
of  Aodh  of  the  race  of  Alpein,  from  the  isles 
of  the  sea.  But  I  am  not  a  druid.  I  am  a 
priest  of  Christ,  a  servant  of  Mary  the  Mother 
of  God,  and  a  son  of  God." 

Ardanna  looked  at  him.  A  flush  came 
into  his  face.  In  his  eyes  the  same  light 
flamed  that  was  there  when  the  Frankish 
prince  told  him  of  the  delights  of  the 
world. 

"  Is  it  true,  O  Cathal,  that  the  druids  — 
that  the  priests  of  Christ  and  the  two  other 
gods,  the  white-robed  men  whom  we  call 
Culdees,  and  of  whom  you  are  one,  is  it  true 
that  they  will  have  nought  to  do  with 
women?" 

Cathal  looked  upon  the  woman  no  more, 
but  on  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"  It  is  true,  Ardanna." 

The  girl  laughed.  It  was  a  low,  sweet, 
mocking  laugh,  but  it  went  along  Cathal's 
blood  like  cloud-fire  along  the  sky.  It  was 
to  him  as  though  somewhat  he  had  not  seen 
was  revealed. 

"  And  is  it  a  true  thing  that  you  holy  men 
191 


The  Annir-Choille 

look  at  women  askance,  and  as  snares  of 
peril  and  evil  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  Ardanna ;  but  not  so  upon 
those  who  are  sisters  of  Christ,  and  whose 
eyes  are  upon  heavenly  things." 

"  But  what  of  those  who  are  not  sisters  of 
your  god,  and  are  only  women,  fair  to  look 
upon,  fair  to  woo,  fair  to  love?  " 

Cathal  again  flushed.  His  eyes  were  still 
upon  the  ground.     He  made  no  answer. 

Ardanna  laughed  low. 

"  Cathal !  " 

"Yes,  fair  daughter  of  Ecta?  " 

"  Is  it  never  longing  for  love  you  are?  " 

"  There  is  but  one  love  for  us  who  have 
taken  the  vows  of  chastity." 

"What  is  chastity?" 

Cathal  raised  his  eyes  and  glanced  at  Ard- 
anna. Her  dark-blue  eyes  looked  at  him 
pure  and  sweet,  though  a  smile  was  upon  her 
mouth.     He  sighed. 

"  It  is  the  sanctity  of  the  body,  Ardanna." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said  simply. 
*'But  tell  me  this,  poor  Cathal —  " 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  poor  Cathal?  " 

"Because  you  have  put  your  manhood 
192 


The  Annir-Choille 

from  you  —  and  you  so  young,  and  strong, 
and  comely  —  and  are  not  a  warrior,  and 
care  neither  for  the  sword,  nor  the  chase, 
nor  the  harp,  nor  for  women." 

Cathal  was  troubled.  He  looked  again 
and  again  at  Ardanna.  The  sunset  light  was 
in  her  yellow  hair,  which  was  about  her  as  a 
glory.  He  had  seen  the  moon  as  wondrous 
pale  as  her  beautiful  face.  Like  lilies  her 
white  hands  were.  He  had  dreamed  of  that 
flamelight  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  care,"  he  said. 

She  drew  nearer,  and  leaned  a  little  for- 
ward, and  looked  at  him. 

"  You  are  good  to  look  upon,  Cathal  — 
the  comeliest  youth  I  have  ever  seen." 

The  monk  flushed.  This  was  the  devil- 
tongue  of  which  Colum  had  warned  him. 
But  how  sweet  the  words  were  :  like  a  harp 
that  low  voice.  Sure,  sweeter  is  a  waking 
dream  than  a  dream  in  sleep. 

"  I  care,"  he  repeated  dully. 

**  Look,  Cathal." 

Slowly  he  raised  his  eyes.  As  his  gaze 
moved  upward  it  rested  on  the  white  breast 
which  was  Uke  sea- foam  swelling  out  of 
13  193 


The  Annir-Chollle 

brown  sea-weed,  for  she  had  a  tanned  fawn- 
skin  belted  and  gold-claspt  over  the  white 
robe  she  wore,  and  that  had  disparted  for 
the  warm  air  to  play  upon  her  bosom. 

It  troubled  him.  He  let  his  eyes  fall 
again.     The  red  was  on  his  face. 

"  Cathal !  " 

"Yes,  Ardanna." 

*'And  you  will  never  put  your  kiss  upon 
a  woman's  lips  ?  Never  put  your  heart  upon 
a  woman's  heart  ?  Is  it  of  cold  sea  water 
you  are  made  —  for  even  the  running  water 
in  the  streams  is  warmed  by  the  sun  ?  Tell 
me,  Cathal,  would  you  leave  Molios  the 
Culdee,— if  "  — 

The  monk  of  Christ  suddenly  flashed  his 
eyes  upon  the  woman. 

"  If  what,  Ardanna  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly; 
*'  if  what,  Ardanna  that  is  so  witching  fair?  " 

"If  I  loved  you,  Cathal?  If  I,  the 
daughter  of  Ecta  the  chief,  loved  you,  and 
took  you  to  be  my  man,  and  you  took  me  to 
be  your  woman,  would  you  be  content  so?" 

He  stared  at  her  as  one  in  a  dream. 
Then  suddenly  all  the  foolish  madness  that 
had  been  put  upon  him  by  Colum  fell  away. 
194 


The  Annir-Choille 

What  did  these  old  men,  Colum  and  MoUos, 
know?  It  is  only  the  young  who  know  what 
hfe  is.  They  were  old,  and  their  blood  was 
gelid. 

He  put  up  his  arms,  as  though  in  prayer. 
Then  he  smiled.  Ardanna  saw  a  light  in 
his  eyes  that  sprang  into  her  heart  and  sang 
a  song  there  that  whirled  in  her  ears  and 
dazzled  her  eyes  and  made  her  feel  as  though 
she  had  fallen  over  a  great  height  and  were 
still  falling. 

Cathal  was  no  longer  pale.  A  red  flame 
burned  in  either  cheek.  The  sunset-light 
behind  him  filled  his  hair  with  fire.  His 
eyes  were  beacons. 

"  Cathal,  Cathal !  " 

"  Come,  Ardanna  !  " 

That  was  all.  What  need  to  say  more. 
She  was  in  his  arms,  and  her  heart  throb- 
bing against  his  that  leapt  in  his  body  like  a 
wolf  fallen  in  a  snare. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  She  lifted 
her  eyes,  and  his  brain  swung.  She  kissed 
him,  and  he  kissed  her  till  she  gave  a 
low  cry  and  gently  thrust  him  back.  He 
laughed. 

195 


The  Annir-Choille 

"Why  do  you  laugh,  Cathal?" 

"  I  ?  It  is  I  who  laugh  now.  The  old 
men  put  a  spell  upon  me.  I  am  no  more 
Cathal  Gille-Muire,  but  Cathal  mac  Art. 
Nay,  I  am  Cathal  Gille-Ardanna." 

With  that  he  plucked  the  branch  of  a 
rowan  that  grew  near.  He  stripped  it  of  its 
leaves,  and  threw  them  from  him  north, 
south,  east,  and  west. 

"Why  do  you  do  that,  Cathal-aluinn  ?  " 
Ardanna  asked,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  of 
love,  and  she  like  a  summer  morning  there, 
because  of  the  sunshine  in  her  hair,  and  the 
wild  roses  on  her  face,  and  the  hill-tarn  blue 
of  her  eyes. 

"  These  are  all  the  hymns  that  Colum 
taught  me.  I  give  them  back.  I  am  know- 
ing them  no  more.  They  are  idle,  foolish 
songs." 

Then  the  monk  took  the  branch  and  broke 
it,  and  threw  the  pieces  upon  the  ground  and 
trampled  upon  them. 

"Why  do  you  that,  Cathal-aluinn?  "  asked 
Ardanna,  wondering  at  him  with  her  home- 
call  eyes. 

"That  is  the  branch  of  all  the  wisdom 
196 


The  Annir-Choille 

Colum  taught  me.  Old  Neis,  the  helot,  was 
wise.  It  is  a  madness,  all  that.  See,  it  is 
gone :  it  is  beneath  my  feet :  I  am  a  man 
now." 

"  But  O  Cathal,  Cathal !  this  very  day  of 
the  days,  Ecta,  my  father,  has  become  a  man 
of  the  Christ-faith,  him  and  his ;  and  he 
would  do  what  Molios  asked,  now.  And 
Molios  would  ask  your  death." 

"  Death  is  a  dream." 

With  that  Cathal  leaned  forward  and  kissed 
Ardanna  upon  the  lips  twice.  *'  A  kiss  for 
life  that,"  he  said;  "and  that  a  kiss  for 
death." 

Ardanna  laughed  a  low  laugh.  "The 
monk  can  kiss,"  she  whispered  :  "  can  the 
monk  love?  " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  they  went 
into  the  dim  dark  greenness. 

The  moon  rose  slowly,  a  globe  of  pale 
golden  fire  which  spilled  unceasingly  a  yellow 
flame  upon  the  suspended  billows  of  the 
forest.  Star  after  star  emerged.  Deep 
silence  was  in  the  woods,  save  for  the 
strange,  passionate  churring  of  a  night-jar, 
where  he  leaned  low  from  a  pine  branch  and 
197 


The  Annir-Choille 

called  to  his  mate,  whose  heart  throbbed  a 
flight-away  amid  the  dewy  shadows. 

The  wind  was  still.  The  white  rays  of  the 
stars  wandered  over  the  moveless,  over  the 
shadowless  and  breathless  green  lawns  of  the 
tree-tops. 

"What  is  that  sound?"  said  Ardanna,  a 
dim  shape  in  the  darkness,  where  she  lay  in 
the  arms  of  Cathal. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  the  youth ;  for  the 
fevered  blood  in  his  veins  sang  a  song  against 
his  ears. 

"Listen!" 

Cathal  listened.  He  heard  nothing.  His 
eyes  dreamed  again  into  the  silence. 

"What  is  that  sound?"  she  whispered 
against  his  heart  once  again.  "  It  is  not 
from  the  sea,  nor  is  it  of  the  woods." 

"  It  is  the  moan  of  Heaven,"  answered 
Cathal  wearily  :  "  an  acaiji  PharaisT 


198 


The  Annir-Choille 


il. 


They  found  them  there  in  the  twiUght  of 
the  dawn.  For  long,  Ecta  looked  at  them 
and  pondered.  Then  he  glanced  at  Molios. 
There  were  tears  in  the  heart  of  the  holy 
man,  but  in  his  eyes  a  deep  anger. 

"  Bind  him,"  said  Ecta. 

Cathal  woke  with  the  thongs.  His  gaze 
fell  upon  Molios.  He  made  no  sign,  and 
spake  never  a  word  :  but  he  smiled. 

"What  now,  O  MoHos?  "  asked  Ecta. 

"Take  the  woman  away.  Do  with  her 
as  you  will  —  spare  or  slay.  It  matters  not. 
She  is  but  a  woman,  and  she  hath  wrought 
evil  upon  this  man.     To  slay  were  well." 

"  She  is  my  daughter." 

"Spare,  then,  if  you  will;  but  take  her 
away.  Give  her  to  a  man.  She  shall  never 
see  this  renegade  again." 

With  that,  two  men  led  Ardanna  away. 
She  gave  a  glance  at  Cathal,  who  smiled. 
No  tears  were  in  her  eyes  :  but  a  proud  fire 
was  there,  and  she  brooked  no  man's  hand 
upon  her,  and  walked  free. 
199 


The  Annir-Choille 

When  she  was  gone,  Molios  spake. 

"Cathal,  that  was  called  Cathal  Gille- 
Muire,  why  have  you  done  this  thing?  " 

"  Because  I  was  weary  of  vain  imaginings, 
and  I  am  young :  and  Ardanna  is  fair,  and 
we  loved." 

"  Such  love  is  death." 

"  So  be  it,  Molios.  Such  death  is  sweet 
as  love." 

"  No  ordinary  death  shalt  thou  have,  blas- 
phemer. Yet  even  now  I  would  be  merciful 
if  I  could.     Dost  thou  call  upon  God  ?  " 

"  I  call  upon  the  gods  of  my  fathers." 

"  Fool,  they  shall  not  save  you." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  call.  I  have  nought  to 
do  with  thy  three  gods,  O  Christian." 

"  Hast  thou  no  fear  of  hell  ?  " 

"I  am  a  warrior,  and  the  son  of  my 
father,  and  of  a  race  of  heroes.  Why  should 
I  fear?" 

Molios  brooded  a  while. 

"Take  him,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  bury 
him  alive  where  his  gods  perchance  will  hear 
his  cries  and  come  and  save  him  !  Find  me 
a  hollow  tree." 

"There  is  a  great  oak  near  here,"  said 
200 


The  Annir-Choille 

Ecta,  wondering,  "  a  great  hollow  oak  whose 
belly  would  hold  five  men,  each  standing 
upon  the  other." 

With  that  he  led  them  to  an  ancient 
tree. 

"Dost  thou  repent,  Cathal?"  Molios 
asked. 

"Ay,"  the  young  man  answered  grimly; 
"  I  repent.  I  repent  that  I  wasted  the  good 
days  serving  you  and  your  three  false  gods." 

"Blaspheme  no  more.  Thou  knowest 
that  these  three  are  one  God." 

Cathal  laughed  mockingly. 

"  Hearken  to  him,  Ecta,"  he  cried ;  "  this 
old  druid  would  have  you  believe  that  two 
men  and  a  woman  make  one  person  !  Be- 
lieve that  if  you  will !     As  for  me,  I  laugh." 

But  with  that,  at  a  sign  from  Molios,  they 
lifted  and  slung  him  amid  the  branches  of 
the  oak,  and  let  him  slide  feet  foremost  into 
the  deep  hollow  heart  of  the  tree. 

When  the  law  was  done,  Molios  bade  all 
near  kneel  in  a  circle  round  the  oak.  Then 
he  prayed  for  the  soul  of  the  doomed  man. 
As  he  ended  this  prayer,  a  laugh  flew  up 
among  the  high  wind-swayed  leaves.     It  was 

20I 


The  Annir-Choille 

as  though  an  invisible  bird  were  there,  mock- 
ing hke  a  jay. 

One  by  one,  with  bowed  heads,  MoHos 
and  Ecta  and  those  with  him  withdrew,  all 
save  two  young  men  who  were  bidden  to 
stay.  Upon  these  was  bond  laid,  that  they 
would  not  stir  from  that  place  for  three 
days.  They  were  to  let  none  draw  nigh ; 
and  no  food  was  to  be  given  to  the  victim ; 
and  if  he  cried  to  them,  they  were  to  take 
no  heed, — nay,  not  though  he  called  upon 
God  or  the  Mother  of  God  or  upon  the 
White  Christ. 

All  that  day  there  was  no  sound  from  the 
hollow  tree.  At  the  setting  of  the  sun  a 
blackbird  lit  upon  a  small  branch  that 
drooped  over  the  aperture,  and  sang  a  brave 
lilt.  Then  the  dark  came,  and  the  moon 
rose,  and  the  stars  glimmered  through  the 
dew. 

At  midnight  the  moon  was  overhead.  A 
flood  of  pale  gold  rays  lit  up  the  branches  of 
the  oak,  and  turned  the  leaves  into  a  lustrous 
bronze.  The  watchers  heard  a  voice  singing 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  —  a  voice  muffled 
and  obscure,  as  from  one  in  a  pit,  or  as  that 

202 


The  Annir-Choille 

of  a  shepherd  straying  in  a  narrow  corrie. 
Words  they  caught,  though  not  all ;  and  this 
was  what  they  heard  :  ^ 

O  yellow  lamp  of  loua  that  is  having  a  cold  pale 

flame  there, 
Put  thy  honey-sheen  upon  me  who  am  close-caverned 

with  Death  : 
Sure  it  is  nought  I  see  now  who  have  seen  too  much 

and  too  little : 
O  moon,  thy  breast  is  softer  and  whiter  than  hers 

who  burneth  the  day. 

Put  thy  white  light  on  the  grave  where  the  dead  man 

my  father  is, 

And  waken  him,  waken  him,  wake ! 
And  put  my  soft  shining  on  the  breast  of  the  woman 

my  mother. 
So  that  she  stir  in  her  sleep  and  say  to  the  Viking 

beside  her, 
"  Take  up  thy  sword,  and  let  it  lap  blood,  for  it 

thirsts  with  long  thirst." 

And  O  loua,  be  as  the  sea-calm  upon  the  hot  heart 

of  Ardanna,  the  girl : 
Tell  her  that  Cathal  loves  her,  and  that  memory  is 

sweeter  than  life. 

"^  loua  was  one  of  the  early  Celtic  names  of  the 
moon.     The  allusion  (in  the  fourth  line)  to  the  sun, 
in  the  feminine,  is  in  accordance  with  ancient  usage. 
203 


The  Annir-Choille 

I  list  her  heart  beating  here  in  the  dark   and  the 

silence, 
And  it  is  not  lonely  I   am,  because  of  that,  and 

remembrance. 

O  yellow  flame  of  loua,  be  a  spilling  of  blood  out  of 

the  heart  of  Ecta, 
So  that  he  fall  dead,  inglorious,  slain  from  within, 

as  a  greybeard ; 
And  light  a  fire  in  the  brain  of  Molios,  so  that  he 

shall  go  moonstruck, 
And  men  will  jeer  at  him,  and  he  will  die  at  the  last, 

idly  laughing. 

For  lo,  I  worship  thee,  loua ;  and  if  you  can  give 
my  message  to  Neis,  — 

Neis  the  helot  out  of  Aoidii,  who  is  in  lona,  bond- 
man to  Colum, — 

Tell  him  I  hail  you  as  Bandia,  as  god-queen  and 
mighty, 

And  that  he  had  the  wisdom  and  I  was  a  fool  with 
trickling  ears  of  moss. 

But  grant  me  this,  O  goddess,  a  bitter  moon-drinking 

for  Colum  1 
May  he  have  the  moonsong  in  his  brain,  and  in  his 

heart  the  moonfire  : 
Flame  burn  him  in  heart  of  flame,  and  may  he  wane 

as  wax  at  the  furnace, 
And  his  soul  drown  in  tears,  and  his  body  be  a 

nothingness  upon  the  sands  I 
204 


The  Annir-Choille 

The  watchers  looked  at  each  other,  but 
said  no  word.  On  the  pale  face  of  each  was 
fear  and  awe.  What  if  this  new  god-teaching 
were  false,  and  if  Cathal  was  right,  and  the 
old  gods  were  the  lords  of  life  and  death? 
The  moonHght  fell  upon  them,  and  they  saw 
doubt  in  the  eyes  of  each  other.  Neither 
looked  at  the  white  fire.  Out  of  the  radiance, 
cold  eyes  might  stare  upon  them  :  and  at 
that,  sure  they  would  leap  to  the  woods, 
laughing  wild,  and  be  as  the  beasts  of  the 
forest. 

While  it  was  still  dark,  an  hour  before  the 
dawn,  one  of  the  twain  awoke  from  a  brief 
slumber.  His  gaze  wandered  from  vague 
tree  to  tree.  Thrice  he  thought  he  saw  dim 
shapes  glide  from  bole  to  bole  or  from  thicket 
to  thicket.  Suddenly  he  discerned  a  tall 
figure,  silent  as  a  shadow,  standing  at  the 
verge  of  the  glade. 

His  low  cry  aroused  his  companion. 

"  What  is  it,  Murta?  "  the  young  man  asked 
in  a  whisper. 

"  A  woman." 

When  they  looked  again  she  was  gone. 

*'  It  was  one  of  the  Hidden  People,"  said 
205 


The  Annir-Choille 

Murta,  with  restless  eyes  roaming  from  dusk 
to  dusk. 

"  How  are  you  for  knowing  that,  Murta?  " 

"  She  was  all  in  green,  just  like  a  green 
shadow  she  was,  and  I  saw  the  green  fire  in 
her  eyes." 

"  Have  you  not  thought  of  one  that  it 
might  be?" 

"Who?" 

"Ardanna." 

With  that  the  young  man  rose  and  ran 
swiftly  to  the  place  where  he  had  seen  the 
figure.  But  he  could  see  no  one.  Looking  at 
the  ground  he  was  troubled  :  for  in  the  moon- 
shine-dew he  descried  the  imprint  of  small  feet. 

Thereafter  they  saw  or  heard  nought,  save 
the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  woodland. 

At  sunrise  the  two  youths  rose.  Murta 
lifted  up  his  arms,  then  sank  upon  his  knees 
with  bowed  head. 

"Why  do  you  do  that  forbidden  thing?" 
said  Diarmid,  that  was  his  companion.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  Cathal  the  monk  that  is  up  there 
alone  with  death?  If  Molios  the  holy  one 
saw  you  worshipping  the  Light  he  would  do 
unto  you  as  he  has  done  unto  Cathal." 
206 


The  Annir-Choille 

But  before  Mtirta  answered  they  heard  the 
voice  of  Cathal  once  more  —  hoarse  and  dry 
it  was,  but  scarce  weaker  than  when  it  thrilled 
them  at  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

This  was  what  he  chanted  in  his  muffled 
voice  out  of  his  grave  there  in  the  hollow 
oak: 

O  hot  yellow  fire  that  streams  out  of  the  sky,  sword- 
white  and  golden, 

Be  a  flame  upon  the  monks  who  are  praying  in  their 
cells  in  loua  1 

Be  a  fire  in  the  veins  of  Colum,  and  the  hell  that  he 
preacheth  be  his. 

And  be  a  torch  to  the  men  of  Lochlin  that  they 
discover  the  Isle  and  destroy  it  1 

For  I  see  this  thing,  that  the  old  gods  are  the  gods 

that  die  not  : 
All  else  is  a  seeming,  a  dream,  a  madness,  a  tide  ever 

ebbing. 
Glory  to  thee,  O  Grian,  lord  of  life,  first  of  the  gods, 

Allfather. 
Swords  and  spears  are  thy  beams,  thy  breath  a  fire 

that  consumeth. 

And  upon  this  isle  of  A-rinn  send  sorrow  and  death 

and  disaster, 
Upon  one  and  all  save  Ardanna,  who  gave  me  her 

bosom, 

207 


The  Annir-Choille 

Upon  one  and  all  send  death,  the  curse  of  a  death 

slow  and  swordless, 
From  Molios  of  the  Cave  to  Murta  and  Diarraid  my 

doomsmen  1 

At  that  Murta  moved  close  to  the  oak. 

"  Hail,  O  Cathal !  "  he  cried.  There  was 
silence. 

"  Art  thou  a  living  man  still,  or  is  it  the 
death  of  thee  that  is  singing  there  in  the 
hollow  oak?  " 

"  My  limbs  perish,  but  I  die  not  yet," 
answered  the  muffled  voice  that  had  greeted 
the  sun. 

"  I  am  Murta  mac  Murta  mac  Neisa,  and 
my  heart  is  sore  for  thee,  Cathal !  " 

There  was  no  word  to  this.  A  thrush 
upon  a  branch  overhead  lifted  its  wings, 
sang  a  wild  sweet  note,  and  swooped  ar- 
rowly  through  the  green  gloom  of  the 
leaves. 

"  Cathal,  that  wert  a  monk,  which  is  the 
true  thing?  Is  it  Christ,  or  the  gods  of  our 
fathers?" 

Silence.  Three  oaks  away  a  woodpecker 
thrust  its  beak  into  the  soft  bark,  tap -tap- 
ping, tap -tapping. 

208 


The  Annir-Chollle 

"  Cathal,  is  it  death  you  are  having,  there 
in  the  dark  and  the  silence?  " 

Murta  strained  his  ears,  but  he  could  hear 
no  sound.  Over  the  woodlands  a  voice 
floated,  drowsy- warm  and  breast-white  —  the 
voice  of  a  cuckoo  calling  a  love- note  from 
cool,  green  shadow  to  shadow  across  a  league 
of  windless  blaze. 

Then  Murta  that  was  a  singer,  went  to 
where  the  bulrushes  grew  by  a  little  tarn 
that  was  in  the  moss  an  arrow-flight  away. 
He  plucked  a  last-year  reed,  straight  and 
brown,  and  with  his  knife  cut  seven  holes 
in  it.  With  a  thinner  reed  he  scooped  the 
hollow  clean. 

Thereupon  he  returned  to  the  oak.  Diar- 
mid,  who  had  begun  to  eat  of  the  food  that 
had  been  left  with  them,  sat  still,  with  his 
eyes  upon  him. 

Murta  put  his  hollow  reed  to  his  lips,  and 
he  played.  It  was  a  forlorn,  sweet  air  that 
he  had  heard  from  a  shepherding  woman 
upon  the  hills.  Then  he  played  a  burying- 
song  of  the  islanders,  wherein  the  wash  of 
the  sea  and  the  rippling  of  the  waves  upon 
the  shore  was  heard.  Then  he  played  the 
14  209 


The  Annir-Choille 

song  of  love,  and  the  beating  of  hearts  was 
heard,  and  sighs,  and  a  voice  hke  a  distant 
bird-song  rose  and  fell. 

When  he  ceased,  a  voice  came  out  of  the 
hollow  oak  — 

"  Play  me  a  death-song,  Murta  mac  Murta 
mac  Neisa." 

M{irta  smiled,  and  he  played  again  the 
song  of  love. 

After  that  there  was  silence  for  a  brief 
while.  Then  Murta  played  upon  his  reed 
for  the  time  it  takes  a  heron  to  mount  her 
seventh  spiral.  Then  he  ceased,  and  threw 
away  the  reed,  and  stood  erect,  staring  into 
the  greenness.  In  his  eyes  was  a  strange 
shine.     He  sang  — 

Out   of  the   wild  hills   I   am   hearing  a  voice,   O 

Cathal ! 
And  I  am  thinking  it  is  the  voice  of  a  bleeding 

sword. 
Whose  is  that  sword  ?    I  know  it  well :  it   is   the 

sword  of  the  Slayer  ^— 
Him  that  is  called  Death,  and  the  song  that  it  sings 

I  know :  — 
O  where  is  Cathal  mac  Art,  that  is  the  cup  for  the 

thirst  of  my  lips  ? 


2IO 


The  Annii-Choille 

Out  of  the  cold  grayness  of  the  sea  I  am  hearing,  O 

Cathal, 
I  am  hearing  a  wave-muffled  voice,  as  of  one  who 

drowns  in  the  depths : 
Whose  is  that  voice  ?    I  know  it  well :  it  is  the  voice 

of  the  Shadow  — 
Her  that  is  called  the  Grave,  and  the  song  that  she 

sings  I  know  :  — 

0  where  is  Cathal  mac  Art,  he  has  warmth  for  the 

chill  that  I  have  ? 

Out  of  the  hot  greenness  of  the  wood  I  am  hearing, 
O  Cathal, 

1  am  hearing  a  rustling  step,  as  of  one  stumbling 

blind. 
Whose  is  that  rustling  step  ?    I  know  it  well :  the 

rustling  walk  of  the  Blind  One  — 
She  that  is  called  Silence,  and  the  song  that  she 

sings  I  know  :  — 
O  where  is  Cathal  mac  Art,  that  has  tears  to  water 

tny  stillness  ? 

After  that  there  was  silence.  Murta  moved 
away.  When  he  sat  by  Diarmid  and  ate, 
there  was  no  word  spoken.  Diarmid  did 
not  look  at  him,  for  he  had  sung  a  song  of 
death,  and  the  shadow  was  upon  him.  He 
kept  his  gaze  upon  the  moss :  if  he  raised 
his  eyes  might  he  not  see  the  Slayer,  or  the 
Shadow  or  the  Blind  One  ? 


The  Annir-Choille 

Noon  came.  None  drew  nigh :  not  a 
face  was  seen  shadowily  afar  off.  Sometimes 
the  hoofs  of  the  deer  rustled  among  the 
bracken.  The  snarhng  of  young  foxes  in  an 
oak- root  hollow  was  like  a  red  pulse  in  the 
heat.  At  times,  in  the  sheer  abyss  of  blue 
sky  to  the  north,  a  hawk  suspended  :  in  the 
white-blaze  southerly  a  blotch  like  swirled 
foam  appeared  for  a  moment  at  long  inter- 
vals, as  a  gannet  swung  from  invisible  pinna- 
cles of  air  to  the  invisible  sea. 

The  afternoon  drowsed  through  the  sun- 
flood.  The  green  leaves  grew  golden,  satur- 
ated with  light.  At  sundown  a  flight  of 
wild  doves  rose  out  of  the  pines,  wheeled 
against  the  shine  of  the  west  and  flashed  out 
of  sight,  flames  of  purple  and  rose,  of  foam- 
white  and  pink. 

The  gloaming  came,  silverly.  The  dew 
glistened  on  the  fronds  of  the  ferns,  in  the 
cups  of  the  moss.  From  glade  to  glade  the 
cuckoos  called.  The  stars  emerged  deli- 
cately, as  the  eyes  of  fawns  shining  through 
the  greengloom  of  the  forest.  Once  more 
the  moon  snowed  the  easter  frondage  of  the 
pines  and  oaks. 


The  Annir-Choille 

No  one  came  nigh.  Not  a  sound  had 
sighed  from  the  oak  since  Murta  had  sung  at 
the  goldening  of  the  day.  At  sunset  Murta 
had  risen,  to  lean,  intent,  against  the  vast 
bole.  His  keen  ears  caught  the  jar  of  a 
beetle  burrowing  beneath  the  bark.  There 
was  no  other  sound. 

At  the  fall  of  dark  the  watchers  heard 
the  conmsed  far  noise  of  a  festival.  It  waned 
as  a  lost  wind.  Dim  veils  of  cloud  obscured 
the  moon;  a  low  rainy  darkness  suspended 
over  the  earth. 

Thus  went  the  second  day  and  the  second 
night. 

When,  after  the  weary  vigil  of  the  hours, 
dawn  came  at  last,  M^rta  rose  and  struck  the 
oak  with  a  stone. 

'^Cathal !  "  he  cried,  «  Cathal !  " 

There  was  no  sound :  not  a  stir,  not  a 
sigh. 

«  Cathal !  Cathal !  " 

Murta  looked  at  Diarmid.  Then,  seeing 
his  own  thought  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend  he 
returned  to  his  side. 

"  The   Blind   One   has   been  here,"   said 
Diarmid  in  a  low  voice. 
213 


The  Annir-Choille 

At  noon  there  was  thunder,  and  great 
heat.  The  noise  of  rustUng  wings  filled  the 
underwood. 

Diarmid  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  When  the 
thunder  had  travelled  into  the  hills,  and  a 
soft  rain  fell,  Murta  climbed  into  the  branches 
of  the  oak.  He  stared  down  into  the  hollow, 
but  could  see  nothing  save  a  green  dusk  that 
became  brown  shadow,  and  brown  shadow 
that  grew  into  a  blackness. 

"  Cathal  /^^  he  whispered. 

Not  a  breath  of  sound  ascended  like 
smoke. 

"  Cathal !  Cathal !  " 

The  slow  drip  of  the  rain  slipped  and 
pattered  among  the  leaves.  The  cry  of  a 
sea-bird  flying  inland  came  mournfully  across 
the  woods.  A  distant  clang,  as  of  a  stricken 
anvil,  iterated  from  the  barren  mountain 
beyond  the  forest. 

"  Cathal !  Cathal !  " 

Murta  broke  a  straight  branch,  stripped  it 
of  the  leaves,  and,  forcing  the  thicker  end 
downward,  let  it  fall  sheer. 

It  struck  with  a  dull,  soft  thud.     He  lis- 
tened :  there  was  not  a  sound. 
214 


The  Annir-Choille 

"A  quiet  sleep  to  you,  monk,"  he  whis- 
pered, and  slipped  down  through  the  boughs, 
and  was  beside  Diarmid  again. 

At  dusk  the  rain  ceased.  A  cool  green 
freshness  came  into  the  air.  The  stars  were 
as  wind-whirled  fruit  blown  upward  from  the 
tree-tops.  The  moon,  full-orbed  and  with  a 
pulse  of  flame,  led  a  tide  of  soft  light  across 
the  brown  shores  of  the  world. 

The  vigils  of  the  watchers  were  over.  Murta 
and  Diarmid  rose.  Without  a  word  they 
moved  across  the  glade :  the  faint  rustle  of 
their  feet  stirred  the  bracken  :  then  they  left 
the  under-growth  and  were  among  the  pines. 
Their  shadows  lapsed  into  the  obscure 
wilderness.  A  doe,  heavy  with  fawn,  lay 
down  among  the  dewy  fern,  and  was  at  peace 
there. 


215 


The  Annir-Choille 


III. 


At  midnight,  when  the  whole  isle  lay  in 
the  full  flood  of  the  moon,  Cathal  stirred. 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  he  had 
been  in  that  dark  hollow,  erect,  wedged  as  a 
spear  imbedded  in  the  jaws  of  a  dead  beast. 
He  had  died  thrice  :  with  hunger,  with  thirst, 
with  weariness.  Then  when  hunger  was  slain 
in  its  own  pain,  and  thirst  perished  of  its  own 
agony,  and  weariness  could  no  more  endure, 
he  stirred  with  the  death-throe. 

"I  die,"  he  moaned. 

"  Die  not,  O  white  one,"  came  a  floating 
whisper,  he  knew  not  whence,  though  it  was 
to  him  as  though  the  crushing  walls  of  oak 
breathed  the  sound. 

"I  die,"  he  gasped, and  the  froth  bubbled 
upon  his  nether  lip.  With  that  his  last 
strength  went.  No  more  could  he  hold  his 
head  above  his  shoulder,  nor  would  his  feet 
sustain  him.  Like  a  stricken  deer  he  sank. 
So  thin  was  he,  so  worn,  that  he  slipt  into  a 
narrow  crevice  where  dead  leaves  had  been, 
and  lay  there,  drowning  in  the  dark. 
216 


The  Annlr-Choille 

Was  that  death,  or  a  cold  air  about  his 
feet,  he  wondered?  With  a  dull  pain  he 
moved  them :  they  came  against  no  tree- 
wood —  the  coolness  about  them  was  of 
dewy  moss.  A  wild  hope  flashed  into  his 
mind.  With  feeble  hands  he  strove  to  sink 
farther  into  the  crevice. 

"  I  die,"  he  gasped,  *'  I  die  now,  at  the 
last." 

"  Die  not,  O  white  one,"  breathed  the 
same  low  sweet  whisper,  like  leaves  stirred  by 
a  nesting  bird. 

*'  Save,  O  save,"  muttered  the  monk, 
hoarse  with  the  death-dew. 

Then  a  blackness  came  down  upon  him 
from  a  great  height,  and  he  swung  in  that 
blank  gulf  as  a  feather  swirled  this  way  and 
that  in  the  void  of  an  abyss. 

When  the  darkness  lifted  again,  Cathal  was 
on  his  back,  and  breathing  slow,  but  without 
pain.  A  sweet  wonderful  coolness  and  ease, 
that  he  knew  now !  Where  was  he  ?  he 
wondered.  Was  he  in  that  Paras  that  Colum 
and  Molios  had  spoken  of?  Was  he  in  Hy 
Brasil,  of  which  he  had  heard  Aodh  the 
Harper  sing  ?  Was  he  in  Tir-na'n-Og,  where 
217 


The  Annir-Chollle 

all  men  and  women  are  young  for  evermore, 
and  there  is  joy  in  the  heart  and  peace  in 
the  mind  and  dehght  by  day  and  by  night? 

Why  was  his  mouth  so  cool,  that  had 
burned  dry  as  ash?  Why  were  his  Hps 
moist,  with  a  bitter-sweet  flavour,  as  though 
the  juice  of  fruit  was  there  still  ? 

He  pondered,  with  closed  eyes.  At  last 
he  opened  them,  and  stared  upward.  The 
profound  black-blue  dome  of  the  sky  held 
group  after  group  of  stars  that  he  knew  :  was 
not  that  sword  and  belt  yonder  the  sword-gear 
of  Fionn?  Yon  shimmering  cluster,  were 
they  not  the  dust  of  the  feet  of  Alldai?  That 
leaping  green  and  blue  planet,  what  could  it 
be  but  the  harp  of  Brigidh,  where  she  sang 
to  the  gods? 

A  shadow  crossed  his  vision.  The  next 
moment  a  cool  hand  was  upon  his  eyes.  It 
brought  rest,  and  healing.  He  felt  the 
blood  move  in  his  veins  :  his  heart  beat :  a 
throbbing  was  in  his  throat. 

Then  he  knew  that  he  had  strength  to 
rise.  With  a  great  effort  he  put  his  weari- 
ness from  off  him,  and  staggered  to  his 
feet. 

218 


The  Annir-Chollle 

Cathal  gave  a  low  sob.  A  fair  beautiful 
woman  stood  by  him. 

"  Ardanna  !  "  he  cried,  though  even  as  the 
word  leaped  from  his  lips  he  knew  that  he 
looked  upon  no  Pictish  woman. 

She  smiled.  All  his  heart  was  glad  be- 
cause of  that.  The  light  in  her  eyes  was 
like  the  fire  of  the  moon,  bright  and  wonder- 
ful. The  delicate  body  of  her  was  pale 
green,  and  luminous  as  a  leaf,  with  soft 
earth-brown  hair  falling  down  her  shoulders 
and  over  the  swelling  breast ;  even  as  the 
small  green  mounds  over  the  dead  the  two 
breasts  were.  She  was  clad  only  in  her  own 
loveliness,  though  the  moonshine  was  about 
her  as  a  garment. 

"  Like  a  green  leaf,  like  a  green  leaf,"  Cathal 
muttered  over  and  over  below  his  breath. 

''Are  you  a  dream?"  he  asked  simply, 
having  no  words  for  his  wonder. 

"  No,  Cathal,  I  am  no  dream.  I  am  a 
woman." 

"  A  woman  ?   But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  you  have 
no  body  as  other  women  have  :  and  I  see 
the  moonbeam  that  is  on  your  breast  shining 
upon  the  moss  behind  you  !  " 
219 


The  Annir-Choille 

"  Is  it  thinking  you  are,  poor  Cathal,  that 
there  are  no  women  and  no  men  in  the 
world  except  those  who  are  in  thick  flesh, 
and  move  about  in  the  suntide." 

Cathal  stared  wonderingly. 

"  I  am  of  the  green  people,  Cathal.  We 
are  of  the  woods.  I  am  a  woman  of  the 
woods." 

*'  Hast  thou  a  name,  fair  woman?  " 

"  I  am  called  Deoin."  ^ 

"  That  is  well.  Truly  *  Green  Life '  is  a 
good  name  for  thee.  Are  there  others  of 
thy  kin  in  this  place?" 

"  Look  ! "  and  at  that  she  stooped,  lifted 
the  dew  of  a  white  flower  in  the  moonshine, 
and  put  it  upon  his  eyes. 

Cathal  looked  about  him.  Everywhere  he 
saw  tall  fair  pale-green  lives  moving  to  and 
fro :  some  passing  out  of  trees,  swift  and 
silent  as  rain  out  of  a  cloud ;  some  passing 
into  trees,  silent  and  swift  as  shadows.  All 
were  fair  to  look  upon :  tall,  lithe,  graceful, 
moving  this  way  and  that  in  the  moonshine, 
pale  green  as  the  leaves  of  the  lime,  soft 

1  Deo-uaine. 
220 


The  Annir-Choille 

shining,  with  radiant  eyes,  and  delicate 
earth- brown  hair. 

"Who  are  these,  Deoin?"  Cathal  asked 
in  a  low  whisper  of  awe. 

"  They  are  my  people  :  the  folk  ot  the 
woods  :    the  green  people." 

"  But  they  come  out  of  trees  :  they  come 
and  they  go  like  bees  in  and  out  of  a  hive." 

"  Trees  ?  That  is  your  name  for  us  of  the 
woods.      We  are  the  trees." 

"  You  the  trees,  Deoin !  How  can  that 
be?" 

"There  is  life  in  your  body.  Where  does 
it  go  when  the  body  sleeps,  or  when  the  sap 
rises  no  more  to  heart  or  brain,  and  there  is 
chill  in  the  blood,  and  it  is  like  frozen  water? 
Is  there  a  life  in  your  body?  " 

"Ay,  so.     I  know  it." 

"  The  flesh  is  your  body  :  the  tree  is  my 
body." 

"  Then  you  are  the  green  hfe  of  a  tree  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  green  Hfe  of  a  tree." 

"And  these?" 

"  They  are  as  I  am." 

"  I  see  those  that  are  men  and  those  that 
are  women,  and  their  offspring  too  I  see." 

221 


The  Annir-Choille 

"  They  are  as  I  am," 

''  And  some  are  crowned  with  pale  flowers." 

"They  love." 

"  And  hast  thou  no  crown,  Deoin,  who  art 
so  fair?" 

"  Neither  hast  thou,  Cathal,  though  thy  face 
is  fair.  Thy  body  I  cannot  see,  because  thou 
hast  a  husk  about  thee." 

With  a  low  laugh  Cathal  removed  his 
raiment  from  him.  The  whiteness  of  his 
body  was  like  a  flower  there  in  the  moonshine. 

"That  shall  not  be  against  me,"  he  said. 
"Truly  I  am  a  man  no  longer,  if  thee  and 
thine  will  have  me  as  one  of  the  wood- 
folk." 

At  that  Deoin  called.  Many  green  phan- 
toms glided  out  of  the  trees,  and  others,  hand- 
in-hand,  flower-crowned,  crossed  the  glade. 

"Look,  green  lives,"  Deoin  cried  in  her 
sweet  leaf-whisper,  rising  now  like  a  wind- 
song  among  birchen  boughs  :  "  Look,  here  is 
a  human.  His  life  is  mine,  for  I  saved  him. 
I  have  put  the  moonshine  dew  upon  his  eyes. 
He  sees  as  we  see.  He  would  be  one  of  us, 
for  all  that  he  has  no  tree  for  his  body,  but 
flesh,  white  over  red." 

222 


The  Annir-Choille 

One  who  had  moved  thitherward  out  of  an 
ancient  oak  looked  at  Catiial. 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  of  the  wood-folk,  man?  " 

"  Ay,  fain  am  I ;  for  sure,  for  sure,  O  druid 
of  the  trees." 

"  Wilt  thou  learn  and  abide  by  our  laws, 
the  first  of  which  is  that  none  may  stir  from 
his  tree  until  the  dusk  has  come,  nor  linger 
away  from  it  when  the  dawn  opens  gray  lips 
and  drinks  up  the  shadows?  " 

"  I  have  no  law  now  but  the  law  of  green 
life." 

"Good.  Thou  shalt  live  with  us.  Thy 
home  shall  be  the  hollow  oak  where  thy  kin 
left  thee  to  die.  Why  did  they  do  that  evil 
deed?" 

"Because  I  did  not  believe  in  the  new 
gods." 

"  Who  are  thy  gods,  man  whom  this  green 
one  here  calls  Cathal?" 

"They  are  the  Sun,  and  the  Moon,  and 
the  Wind,  and  others  that  I  will  tell  you  of." 

"  Hast  thou  heard  of  Keithoir?  " 

"No." 

"  He  is  tlie  god  of  the  green  world.  He 
dreams,  and  his  dreams  are  Springtide  and 
223 


The  Annir-Choille 

Summertide  and  Appletide.    When  he  sleeps 
without  dream  there  is  winter." 

"  Have  you  no  other  god  but  this  earth- 
god?" 

"  Keithoir  is  our  god.  We  know  no 
other." 

"  If  he  is  thy  god,  he  is  my  god." 

"  I  see  in  the  eyes  of  Deoin  that  she  loves 
thee,  Cathal  tlie  human.  Wilt  thou  have 
her  love  ?  " 

Cathal  looked  at  the  girl.  His  heart 
swam  in  light. 

"Ay,  if  Deoin  will  give  me  her  love,  my 
love  shall  be  hers." 

The  Annir-Choille  moved  forward,  and 
brushed  softly  against  him  as  a  green  branch. 

He  put  his  arms  around  her.  She  had  a 
cool,  sweet  body  to  feel.  He  was  glad  she 
was  no  moonshine  phantom.  The  beating 
of  her  heart  against  his  made  a  music  that 
filled  his  ears. 

Deoin  stooped  and  plucked  white,  dewy 
flowers.  Of  these  she  wove  a  wreath  for 
Cathal.  He,  likewise,  plucked  the  white 
blooms,  and  made  a  coronal  of  foam  for  the 
brown  wave  of  her  hair. 
224 


The  Annir-Choille 

Then,  hand  in  hand,  they  fared  slowly 
forth  across  the  moonlit  glade.  None  crossed 
their  path,  though  everywhere  delicate  green 
lives  flitted  from  tree  to  tree.  They  heard 
a  wonderful  sweet  singing,  aerial,  with  a 
ripple  as  of  leaves  lipping  a  windy  shore  of 
light.  A  green  glamour  was  in  the  eyes  of 
Cathal.  The  green  fire  of  life  flamed  in  his 
veins. 


IS  225 


The  Annir-Choille 


IV 


MoLios,  the  saint  of  Christ,  that  lived  in 
the  sea-cave  of  the  Isle  of  the  Peak,  so  that 
even  in  his  own  day  it  was  called  the  Holy 
Isle,  endured  to  a  great  age. 

Some  say  of  him  that  before  his  hair  was 
bleached  white  as  the  bog-cotton,  he  was 
slain  by  the  heathen  Picts,  or  by  the  fierce 
summer-sailors  out  of  Lochlin.  But  that  is 
an  idle  tale.  His  end  was  not  thus.  A 
Culdee,  who  had  the  soul  of  a  bat,  feared 
the  truth,  though  that  gave  glory  to  God, 
and  wrote  both  in  ogham  and  lambskin  the 
truthless  tale  that  Molios  went  forth  with  the 
cross  and  was  slain  in  a  north  isle. 

On  a  day  of  the  days  every  year,  Molios 
fared  to  the  Hollow  Oak  that  was  in  the  hill- 
forest  beyond  the  rath  of  Ecta  mac  Ecta. 
There  he  spake  long  upon  the  youth  that 
had  been  his  friend,  and  upon  how  the  Evil 
One  had  prevailed  with  Cathal,  and  how  the 
islander  had  been  done  to  death  there  in 
the  oak.  Then  he  and  all  his  company  sang 
the  hymns  of  peace,  and  great  joy  there  was 
226 


The  Annir-Choille 

over  the  doom  of  Cathal  the  monk,  and 
many  would  have  cleft  the  great  tree  or 
burned  it,  so  that  the  dust  of  the  sinner 
might  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds :  only 
this  was  banned  by  Molios. 

It  was  well  for  Cathal,  who  slept  there 
through  the  hours  of  light !  Deep  slumber 
was  his,  for  never  once  did  he  hear  the 
noontide  voices,  nor  ever  in  his  ears  was  the 
long  rise  and  fall  of  the  holy  hymns. 

But  when,  in  the  twentieth  year  after 
Cathal  had  been  thrust  into  the  hollow  oak, 
MoHos  came  at  sundown,  being  weary  with 
the  heat,  the  saint  heard  a  low,  faint  laughter 
issuing  from  the  tree,  like  fragrance  from  a 
flower. 

None  other  heard  it.  He  saw  that  with 
gladness.    Quietly  he  went  with  the  islanders. 

When  the  moon  was  over  the  pines,  and 
all  in  the  rath  slept,  Molios  arose  and  went 
silently  back  into  the  forest. 

When  he  came  to  the  Doom-Tree  he 
listened  long,  with  his  ear  against  the  bark. 
There  was  no  sound. 

His  voice  was  old  and  quavering,  but  fresh 
and  young  in  the  courts  of  heaven,  when  it 
227 


The  Annir-Choille 

reached  there  Uke  a  fluttering  bird  tired  from 
long  flight.     He  sang  a  holy  hymn. 

He  listened.  There  was  no  laughter.  He 
was  glad  at  that.  All  had  been  a  dream,  for 
sure. 

Then  it  was  that  he  heard  once  again  the 
low,  mocking  laughter.  He  started  back, 
trembling. 

"  Cathal !  "  he  cried,  with  his  voice  like  a 
wuthering  wind. 

"I  am  here,  O  Molios,"  said  a  voice 
behind  him. 

The  old  Culdee  turned,  as  though  arrow- 
nipped.  Before  him,  white  in  the  moon- 
shine, stood  a  man,  naked. 

At  first  Molios  knew  him  not.  He  was  so 
tall  and  strong,  so  fair  and  wonderful.  Long 
locks  of  ruddy  hair  hung  upon  his  white 
shoulders :  his  eyes  were  lustrous,  and  had 
the  lovely,  soft  light  of  the  deer.  When  he 
moved,  it  was  swiftly  and  silently.  No  stag 
upon  the  hills  was  more  fair  to  see. 

Then,  slowly,  Cathal  the   monk  swam  into 
Cathal    of    the   Woods.      Molios   saw   him 
whom  he  knew  of  old,  as  a  blue  flame  is 
visible  within  the  flame  of  yellow. 
228 


The  Annir-Choille 

"  I  am  here,  O  Molios." 

Strange  was  the  voice :  faint  and  far  the 
tone  of  it ;  yet  it  was  that  of  a  Hving  man. 

"  Is  it  a  spirit  you  are,  Cathal?  " 

"  I  am  no  spirit.  I  am  Cathal  the  monk 
that  was,  Cathal  the  man  now." 

"  How  came  you  out  of  hell,  you  that  are 
dead,  and  the  dust  of  whose  crumbling  bones 
is  in  the  hollow  of  this  oak?  " 

"There  is  no  hell,  Culdee." 

"  No  hell !  "  Molios  the  Saint  stared  at 
the  wood-man  in  blank  amaze. 

"No  hell !  "  he  said  again ;  "  and  is  there 
no  heaven?" 

"  A  hell  there  is,  and  a  heaven  there  is : 
but  not  what  Colum  taught,  and  you  taught." 

"Doth  Christ  live?" 

"  I  know  not." 

"And  Mary?" 

"  I  know  not." 

"And  God  the  Father?" 

"  I  know  not." 

"  It  is  a  lie  that  you  have  upon  your  lips. 

Sure,  Cathal,  you  shall  be  dead  indeed  soon, 

to  the  glory  of  God.     For  I  shall  have  thy 

dust  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  and  thy 

229 


The  Annir-Choille 

bones  consumed  in  flame,  and  a  stake  be 
driven  through  the  place  where  thou  wast." 

Once  more  Cathal  laughed. 

'^  Go  back  to  the  sea- cave,  Molios.  Thou 
hast  much  to  learn.  Brood  there  upon  the 
ways  of  thy  God  before  thou  judgest  if  He 
knoweth  no  more  than  thou  dost.  And  see, 
I  will  show  you  a  wonder.  Only,  first,  tell 
me  this  one  thing.  What  of  Ardanna  whom 
I  loved?" 

"  She  was  accursed.  She  would  not  believe. 
When  Ecta  took  the  child  from  her,  that  was 
born  in  sin,  to  have  the  water  put  upon  it 
with  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  she  went  north 
beyond  the  Hill  of  the  Pinnacles.  There  she 
saw  the  young  king  of  the  Picts  of  Argyll, 
and  he  loved  her,  and  she  went  to  his  dun. 
He  took  her  to  his  rath  in  the  north,  and  she 
was  his  queen.  He,  and  she,  and  the  two 
sons  she  bore  to  him  are  all  under  the  hill- 
moss  now  :  and  their  souls  are  in  hell." 

Cathal  laughed,  low  and  mocking. 

"It  is  a  good  hell  that,  I  am  thinking, 
Molios.  But  come  ...  I  will  show  you  a 
wonder." 

With  that  he  stooped,  and  took  the  moon- 
230 


The  Annir-Choille 

shine  dew  out  of  a  white  flower,  and  put  it 
upon  the  eyes  of  the  old  man. 

Then  MoHos  saw. 

And  what  he  saw  was  a  strangeness  and 
a  terror  to  him.  For  everywhere  were  green 
Uves,  fair  and  comely,  gentle-eyed,  lovely,  of 
a  soft  shining.  From  tree  to  tree  they  flitted, 
or  passed  to  and  fro  from  the  tree- boles,  as 
wild  bees  from  their  hives. 

Beside  Cathal  stood  a  woman.  Beautiful 
she  was,  with  eyes  like  stars  in  the  gloaming. 
All  of  green  flame  she  seemed,  though  the 
old  monk  saw  her  breast  rise  and  fall,  and 
the  light  lift  of  her  earth-brown  hair  by  a 
wind-breath  eddying  there,  and  the  hand 
of  her  clasped  in  that  of  Cathal.  Beyond 
her  were  fair  and  beautiful  beings,  lovely 
shapes  like  unto  men  and  women,  but  soul- 
less, though  loving  life  and  hating  death, 
which,  of  a  truth,  is  all  that  the  vain  human 
clan  does. 

"Who  is  this  woman,  Cathal?  "  asked  the 
saint,  trembling. 

"  It  is  Deoin,  whom  I  love,  and  who  has 
given  me  life." 

"And  these  .  .  .  that  are  neither  green 
231 


The  Annir-Choille 

phantoms  out  of  trees,  nor  yet  men  as  we 
are?" 

*'  These  are  the  offspring  of  our  love." 

MoHos  drew  back  in  horror. 

But  Cathal  threw  up  his  arms,  and  with 
glad  eyes  cried : 

"  O  green  flame  of  life,  pulse  of  the  world. 
O  Love  I    O  Youth  !    O  Dream  of  Dreams." 

"  O  bitter  grief,"  MoHos  cried,  "  O  bitter 
grief,  that  I  did  not  slay  thee  utterly  on  that 
day  of  the  days  !  Flame  to  thy  flesh,  and  a 
stake  through  thy  belly  —  that  is  the  doom 
thou  shouldst  have  had  !  My  ban  upon  thee, 
Cathal,  that  was  a  monk,  and  now  art  a  wild 
man  of  the  woods :  upon  thee,  and  thy 
Annir-Coille,  and  all  thy  brood,  I  put  the 
ban  of  fear  and  dread  and  sorrow,  a  curse 
by  day  and  a  curse  by  night !  " 

But  with  that  a  great  dizziness  swam  into 
the  brain  of  the  saint,  and  he  fell  forward, 
and  lay  his  length  upon  the  moss,  and  there 
was  no  sight  to  his  eyes,  or  hearing  to  his 
ears,  or  knowledge  upon  him  at  all  until  the 
rising  of  the  sun. 

When  the  yellow  light  was  upon  his  face 
232 


The  Annir-Choille 

he  rose.  There  was  no  face  to  see  anywhere. 
Looking  in  the  dew  for  the  myriad  feet  that 
had  been  there,  he  saw  none. 

The  old  man  knelt  and  prayed. 

At  the  first  praying  God  filled  his  heart 
with  peace.  At  the  second  praying  God 
filled  his  heart  with  wonder.  At  the  third 
praying  God  whispered  mysteriously,  and  he 
knew.  Humble  in  his  new  knowledge,  he 
rose.  The  tears  were  in  his  old  eyes.  He 
went  up  to  the  Hollow  Oak,  and  blessed  it, 
and  the  wild  man  that  slept  within  it,  and  the 
Annir-Coille  that  Cathal  loved,  and  the  off- 
spring of  their  love.  He  took  the  curse  away, 
and  he  blessed  all  that  God  had  made. 

All  the  long  weary  way  to  the  shore  he 
went  as  one  in  a  dream.  Wonder  and  mys- 
tery were  in  his  eyes. 

At  the  shore  he  entered  the  little  coracle 
that  brought  him  daily  from  the  Holy  Isle,  a 
triple  arrow-flight  seaward. 

A  child  sat  in  it,  playing  with  pebbles.  It 
was  Ardan,  the  son  of  Ardanna. 

"  Ardan  mac  Cathal,"  began  the  saint, 
weary  now,  but  glad  with  a  strange  new 
gladness. 

233 


The  Annlr-Choille 

"  Who  is  Cathal?  "  said  the  boy. 

"  He  that  was  thy  father.  Tell  me,  Ardan, 
hast  thou  ever  seen  aught  moving  in  the 
woods  —  green  lives  out  of  the  trees?" 

"  I  have  seen  a  green  shine  come  out  of 
the  trees." 

Molios  bowed  his  head. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  as  my  son,  Ardan ;  and 
when  thou  art  a  man  thou  shalt  choose  thy 
own  way,  and  let  no  man  hinder  thee." 

That  night  Molios  could  not  sleep.  Hear- 
ing the  loud  wash  of  the  sea,  he  went  to  the 
mouth  of  the  cave.  For  a  long  while  he 
watched  the  seals  splashing  in  the  silver 
radiance  of  the  moonshine.  Then  he  called 
them. 

"  O  seals  of  the  sea,  come  hither  !  " 

At  that  all  the  furred  swimmers  drew 
near. 

"  Is  it  for  the  curse  you  give  us  every  year 
of  the  years,  O  holy  Molios?"  moaned  a 
great  black  seal. 

"  O  Ron  dubh,  it  is  no  curse  I  have  for 

thee  or  thine,  but  a  blessing,  and  peace.     I 

have  learned  a  wonder  of  God,  because  of 

an  Annir-Coille  in  the  forest  that  is  upon  the 

234 


The  Annir-Chollle 

hill.  But  now  I  will  be  telling  you  the  white 
story  of  Christ." 

So  there,  in  the  moonshine,  with  the  flow- 
ing tide  stealing  from  his  feet  to  his  knees, 
the  old  saint  preached  the  gospel  of  love. 
The  seals  crouched  upon  the  rocks,  with  their 
great  brown  eyes  filled  with  glad  tears. 

When  Molios  ceased,  each  slipped  again 
into  the  shadowy  sea.  All  that  night,  while 
he  brooded  upon  the  mystery  of  Cathal  and 
the  Annir-Coille,  with  deep  knowledge  of 
hidden  things,  and  a  heart  filled  with  the 
wonder  and  mystery  of  the  world,  he  heard 
them  splashing  to  and  fro  in  the  moon- 
dazzle,  and  calling,  one  to  the  other,  "We, 
too,  are  the  sons  of  God." 

At  dawn  a  shadow  came  into  the  cave.  A 
white  frost  grew  upon  the  face  of  MoHos. 
Still  was  he,  and  cold,  when  Ardan,  the  child, 
awoke.  Only  the  white  lips  moved.  A  ray 
of  the  sun  slanted  across  the  sea,  from  the 
great  disc  of  whirling  golden  flame  new 
risen.  It  fell  softly  upon  the  moving  lips. 
They  were  still  then,  and  Ardan  kissed  them 
because  of  the  smile  that  was  there. 


235 


THE    SHADOW-SEERS 


237 


THE   SHADOW-SEERS 


THE     SIGHT* 

THE  "vision,"  or  second-sight,  is  more 
common  in  the  Western  Isles  than  in 
the  Highlands  ;  now  at  least,  when  all  things 
sacred  to  the  Celtic  race,  from  the  ancient 
language  to  the  degenerate  and  indeed  all 
but  vanished  Beltane  and  Samh'in  rites,  are 
smiled  at  by  the  gentle  and  mocked  by  the 
vulgar.  A  day  will  come  when  men  will 
lament  more  what  is  irrecoverable  than  ever 
a  nation  mourned  for  lapsed  dominion.  It 
is  a  bitter  cruel  thing  that  strangers  must  rule 
the  hearts  and  brains,  as  well  as  the  poor 
fortunes,  of  the  mountaineers  and  islanders. 

1  These  four  short  episodes  are  reprinted,  by 
courteous  consent  of  the  Editor  of  Harper* s  Maga- 
zine, where  they  appeared,  interpolated  in  "  From 
the  Hebrid  Isles" 

239 


The  Shadow-Seers 

Yet  in  doing  their  best  to  thrust  Celtic  Hfe 
and  speech  and  thought  into  the  sea,  they 
are  working  a  sore  hurt  for  themselves  that 
they  shall  discern  in  the  day  of  adversity. 
We  of  the  passing  race  know  this  thing  :  that 
in  a  day  to  come  the  sheep-runs  shall  not  be 
in  the  Isles  and  the  Highlands  only  —  for  we 
see  the  forests  moving  south,  and  there  will 
be  lack,  then,  not  of  deer  and  of  sheep,  but 
of  hunters  and  shepherds. 

That  which  follows  is  only  a  memento  of 
what  was  told  me  last  summer  by  a  fisherman 
of  lona.  If  I  were  to  write  all  I  have  heard 
about  what  is  called  second-sight,  it  would 
be  a  volume  and  not  a  few  pages  I  should 
want.  The  "  sight  "  has  been  a  reality  to 
me  almost  from  the  cradle,  for  my  Highland 
nurse  had  the  faculty,  and  I  have  the  memory 
of  more  than  one  of  her  trances. 

There  is  an  old  man  on  the  island  named 
Daibhidh  (David)  Macarthur.^  It  was  Ivor 
McLean,  my  boatman  friend,  who  took  me 

1  As  there  are  several  Macarthurs  on  lona,  I  may 
say  that  the  old  man  I  allude  to  was  not  so  named. 
Out  of  courtesy  I  disguise  his  name :  though,  since 
the  above  was  written,  he  is  no  more. 
240 


The  Shadow-Seers 

to  him.  He  is  a  fine  old  man,  though 
'*  heavy "  a  little ;  with  years,  perhaps,  for 
his  head  is  white  as  the  crest  of  a  wave. 
He  is  one  of  the  very  few  of  lona,  perhaps 
of  the  two  or  three  at  most,  who  do  not 
speak  any  English. 

"  No,"  he  told  me,  "  he  had  never  had 
the  sight  himself.  Ivor  was  wrong  in  saying 
that  he  had." 

This,  I  imagine,  was  shyness,  or,  rather, 
that  innate  reticence  of  the  Celt  in  all  pro- 
foundly intimate  and  spiritual  matters;  for, 
from  what  Ivor  told  me,  I  am  convinced 
that  old  Macarthur  had  more  than  once 
proved  himself  a  seer. 

But  he  admitted  that  his  wife  had 
"it." 

We  were  seated  on  an  old  upturned  boat 
on  the  rocky  little  promontory,  where  once 
were  first  laid  the  innumerable  dead,  brought 
for  burial  to  the  sacred  soil  of  lona.  For  a 
time  Macarthur  spoke  slowly  about  this  and 
that ;  then,  abruptly  and  without  preamble, 
he  told  me  this  : 

The  Christmas  before  last,  Mary,  his  wife, 
had  seen  a  man  who  was  not  on  the  island. 
i6  241 


The  Shadow-Seers 

"  And  that  is  true,  by  St.  Martin's  Cross," 
he  added. 

They  were,  he  said,  sitting  before  the  fire, 
when,  after  a  long  silence,  he  looked  up  to  see 
his  wife  staring  into  the  shadow  in  the  ingle. 
He  thought  she  was  brooding  over  the  bar- 
ren womb  that  had  been  her  life-long  sorrow, 
and  now  in  her  old  age  had  become  a 
strange  and  gnawing  grief,  and  so  he  turned 
his  gaze  upon  the  red  coals  again. 

But  suddenly  she  exclaimed,  "  Cait  am 
bheil  thu  doW^   (Where  are  you  going?) 

He  looked  up,  but  saw  no  one  in  the 
room  beside  themselves. 

"What  has  come  to  you?"  he  asked. 
"  What  do  you  see  ?  " 

But  she  took  no  notice. 

*' Cuine  tha  thu  falbJW  (When  are 
you  going?)  she  muttered,  with  the  same 
strained  voice  and  frozen  eyes.  And  then, 
once  again,  *' Cuine  thig  thu  rithisd?^^ 
(When  will  you  come  again?)  And  with 
that  she  bowed  her  head,  and  the  thin  backs 
of  the  hands  upon  her  knees  were  wet  with 
falling  tears. 

For  the  fourth  of  an  hour  thereafter  she 
242 


The  Shadow-Seers 

would  say  nothing  except  moan,  "  Tha  an 
amhuinn  domhain ;  tha  an  amhuinn  do??i- 
hain  ;  fuar^  fuar  ;  domhain ^  domhain  J  ^^"^ 
(Deep,  deep  is  the  river ;  cold  and  deep  j 
cold  and  deep  !) 

And  the  man  she  saw,  added  Macarthur, 
was  her  nephew,  Luthais,  in  Cape  Breton,  of 
Nova  Scotia,  who,  as  they  learned  before 
Easter,  was  drowned  that  Christmas-tide. 
He  was  the  last  of  his  mother's  race,  and 
had  been  the  foster-child  of  Mary. 

1  Pronounce  Ha  aun  ah-ween  do'-inn ;  few-ar, 
few-ar ;  do'-inn,  do'-inn. 


243 


II 

THE    DARK    HOUR    OF    FERGUS 

IN    September  of  last  year  I  was  ferried 
across  the  Sound  of  Kerrera  by  an  old 
boatman. 

That  afternoon  I  went  with  my  friend,  a 
peasant  farmer  near  the  south  end  of  Kerrera, 
and  lay  down  in  the  grassy,  bouldered  wilder- 
ness beneath  the  cliff  on  which  stands  the 
ruin  of  Gylen  Castle.  The  tide  called  in  a 
loud  insistent  whisper,  rising  to  a  hoarse 
gurgle,  from  the  Sound.  The  breeze  that 
came  from  the  mountains  of  Mull  was  honey- 
sweet  with  heather  smell.  The  bleating  of 
the  ewes  and  lambs,  the  screaming  of  a  few 
gulls,  —  nothing  else  was  audible.  At  times, 
it  is  true,  like  a  deep  sigh,  the  suspiration  of 
the  open  sea  rose  and  fell  among  the  islands. 
Faint  echoes  of  that  sigh  came  round  Gylen 
headland  and  up  the  Kyle.  It  was  an  hour 
wherein  to  dream  of  the  sons  of  Morven,  who 
had  landed  here  often,  long  before  the  ancient 
244 


The  Shadow-Seers 

stronghold  was  built;  of  Fionn  and  the 
F^inn  of  the  coming  and  going  of  Ossian  in 
his  blind  old  age;  of  beautiful  Malvina;  of 
the  galleys  of  the  Fomorians ;  of  the  songs 
and  the  singers  and  all  the  beautiful  things 
of  "  the  old  ancient  long  ago." 

But  the  tale  that  I  heard  from  my  friend 
was  this  : 

You  know  that  my  mother's  people  are 
Skye  folk.  It  was  from  the  mother  of  my 
mother  that  I  heard  what  you  call  the  Incan- 
tation of  the  Spirit,  though  I  never  heard  it 
called  anything  but  old  Elsie's  Sian.  She 
lived  near  the  Hart  o'  Corry.  You  know  the 
part  ?  Ay,  true,  it  is  wild  land  —  wild  even 
for  the  wilderness  o'  Skye.  Old  mother  Elsie 
had  "  the  sight "  at  times,  and  whenever  she 
wished  she  could  find  out  the  lines  o'  life. 
It  was  magic,  they  say.  Who  am  I  to 
know  ?  This  is  true,  she  knew  much  that  no 
one  else  knew.  When  my  mother's  cousin, 
Fergus  MacEwan,  who  was  mate  of  a  sloop 
that  sailed  between  Stornoway  and  Ardrossan, 
came  to  see  her  —  and  that  was  in  the  year 
before  my  mother  was  married,  and  when  she 
245 


The  Shadow-Seers 

was  courted  by  Fergus,  though  she  was  never 
for  giving  her  Hfe  to  him,  for  even  then  she 
loved  my  father,  poor  fisherman  of  Ulva 
though  he  was  (  though  heir,  through  his 
father's  brother,  to  his  crofter-farm  on 
Kerrera  here  )  —  when  Fergus  came  to  see 
her,  because  of  the  gloom  that  was  upon  his 
spirit,  she  foretold  all.  At  first  she  could 
"  see  "  poorly.  But  one  wild  afternoon,  when 
the  Cuchullins  were  black  with  cloud-smoke, 
she  bade  him  meet  her  in  that  lonely  savage 
glen  they  call  the  Loat  o'  Corry.  He  was 
loath  to  go,  for  he  feared  the  place.  But  he 
went.  He  told  all  to  my  mother  before  he 
went  away  next  dawn,  with  the  heart  in  him 
broken,  and  his  hope  as  dead  as  a  herring  in 
a  net. 

"  Mother  Elsie  came  to  him  out  of  the  dusk 
in  that  wuthering  place  just  like  a  drifting 
mist,  as  he  said.  She  gave  him  no  greeting, 
but  was  by  his  side  in  silence.  Before  he  knew 
what  she  was  doing  she  had  the  soles  of  her 
feet  upon  his,  and  her  hands  folding  his,  and 
her  eyes  burning  against  his  like  hot  coals 
against  ash.  He  felt  shudders  come  over 
him,  and  a  wind  blew  up  and  down  his  back ; 
246 


The  Shadow-Seers 

and  he  grew  giddy,  and  heard  the  roaring  of 
the  tides  in  his  ears.  Then  he  was  quiet. 
Her  voice  was  very  far  away  when  she  said 
this  thing,  but  he  remembered  every  word 
of  it: 

By  that  which  dwells  within  thee, 
By  the  lamps  that  shine  upon  me, 
By  the  white  light  I  see  litten 
From  the  brain  now  sleeping  stilly. 
By  the  silence  in  the  hollows, 
By  the  wind  that  slow  subsideth, 
By  the  life-tide  slowly  ebbing, 
By  the  deith-tide  slowly  rising, 
By  the  slowly  waning  warmth. 
By  the  chill  that  slowly  groweth, 
By  the  dusk  that  slowly  creepeth, 
By  the  darkness  near  thee, 
By  the  darkness  round  thee, 
By  the  darkness  o'er  thee  — 
O'er  thee,  round  thee,  on  thee  — 
By  the  one  that  standeth 
At  thy  side  and  waiteth 
Dumb  and  deaf  and  blindly. 
By  the  one  that  moveth, 
Bendeth,  raiseth,  watcheth. 
By  the  dim  Grave-Spell  upon  thee. 
By  the  Silence  thou  hast  wedded.  .  .  . 
May  the  way  thy  feet  are  treading, 
May  the  tangled  lines  now  crooked. 
Clear  as  moonlight  lie  before  me  ! 
247 


The  Shadow-Seers 

Oh  !  oh  !  ohrone,  ochrone  !  green  the  branches  bonnie  : 
Oh  !  oh  !  ohrone  !  ochrone  !  red  the  blood-drop  berries : 
Achrone,  arone,   arone,  arone,   I  see  the  green-clad 

Lady. 
She  walks  the  road  that  ^s  wet  with  tears,  with  rustling 

sorrows  shady.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  oh  !  mo  ghraidh. 


Then  it  was  that  a  great  calm  came 
upon  Fergus,  though  he  felt  like  a  drowned 
man,  or  as  one  who  stood  by  his  own  body, 
but  speechless,  and  feeling  no  blowing  of 
wind  through  his  shadow-frame. 

For,  indeed,  though  the  body  lived,  he 
was  already  of  the  company  of  the  silent. 
What  was  that  caiodh,  that  wailing  lamenta- 
tion, sad  as  the  Cumha  fir  Arais,  which 
followed  Elsie's  incantation,  her  spell  upon 
"the  way"  before  him,  that  it  and  all  the 
trailed  lines  of  this  life  should  be  clear  as 
moonlight  before  her?  Oh!  oh!  oJirone^ 
oclirone  !  red  the  blood-drop  berries  ;  did  not 
these  mean  no  fruit  of  the  quicken-tree,  but 
the  falling  drops  from  the  maimed  tree  that 
was  himself?  And  was  not  the  green-clad 
lady,  she  who  comes  singing  low,  the  sprout- 
ing of  the  green  grass  that  is  the  hair  of  the 
248 


The   Shadow-Seers 

earth?  And  was  not  the  road,  gleaming  wet 
with  ruts  and  pools  all  of  tears,  and  over- 
hung by  dark  rustling  plumes  of  sorrow,  the 
road  that  the  soul  traverses  in  the  dark  hour? 
And  did  not  all  this  mean  that  the  Grave 
Spell  was  already  upon  him,  and  that  the 
Silence  was  to  be   his?^ 

But  what  thing  it  was  she  saw,  Elsie 
would  not  say.  Darkly  she  dreamed  awhile, 
then  leaned  forward  and  kissed  his  breast. 
He  felt  the  sob  in  her  heart  throb  into  his. 


1  (i)  Caiodh  (a  wailing  lament)  is  a  difficult  word 
to  pronounce.  The  Irish  fceen  will  help  the  for- 
eigner with  Kiie-yh  or  Kii'e-yhn.  (2)  The  Ciimhafir 
Arais  (pronounce  Kiiv'ah  feer  Arooss)  means  the 
lament  of  the  man  of  Aros  —  /.  <?.,  the  chieftain. 
Aros  Castle,  on  the  great  island  of  Mull,  over- 
looking the  Sound,  was  one  of  the  strongholds  of 
Macdonald,  Lord  of  the  Isles.  {3)  The  quicken 
(rowan,  mountain-ash,  and  other  names)  is  a  sacred 
tree  with  the  Celtic  peoples,  and  its  branches  can 
either  avert  or  compel  supernatural  influences.  (4) 
The  green-clad  Lady  is  the  Cailleach,  the  Siren  of  the 
Hill-Sides,  to  see  whom  portends  death  or  disaster. 
When  she  is  heard  singing,  that  portends  death 
soon  for  the  hearer.  The  grass  is  that  which  grows 
quick  and  green  above  the  dead.  The  dark  hour  is 
the  hour  of  death  — ;.  e.,  the  first  hour  after  death. 
249 


The  Shadow-Seers 

Dazed,  and  knowing  that  she  had  seen 
more  than  she  had  dreamed  of  seeing,  and 
that  his  hour  was  striding  over  the  rocky 
wilderness  of  that  wild  Isle  of  Skye,  he  did 
not  know  she  was  gone,  till  a  shuddering  fear 
of  the  silence  and  the  gloom  told  him  he 
was  alone. 

Coll  MacColl  (he  that  was  my  Kerrera 
friend)  stopped  here,  just  as  a  breeze  will 
suddenly  stop  in  a  corrie  so  that  the  rowan 
berries  on  the  side  of  a  quicken  will  sway 
this  way  and  that,  while  the  long  thin  leaves 
on  the  other  will  be  as  still  as  the  stones 
underneath,  where  their  shadows  sleep. 

I  asked  him  at  last  if  Elsie's  second-sight 
had  proved  true.  He  looked  at  me  for  a 
moment,  as  though  vaguely  surprised  I  should 
ask  so  foolish  a  thing. 

No  sleep  came  to  Fergus  that  night, 
he  resumed,  quietly,  as  though  no  other 
words  were  needed,  and  at  daybreak  he 
rose  and  left  the  cot  of  his  kinsman,  An- 
drew MacEwan.  In  the  gray  dawn  he  saw 
my  mother,  and  told  her  all.  Then  she 
250 


The  Shadow-Seers 

wished  him  farewell,  and  bade  him  come 
again  when  next  the  Sunbeam  should  be 
sailing  to  Portree,  or  other  port  in  Skye ; 
for  she  did  not  believe  that  her  mother  had 
seen  speedy  death,  or  death  at  all,  but 
perhaps  only  a  time  of  sorrow,  and  even  that 
she  had  done  this  thing  to  send  Fergus  away, 
for  she  too  had  her  eyes  on  Robert  MacColl, 
that  was  my  father. 

"And  so  you  will  come  again,  Fergus 
my  friend,"  she  said  ;  and  added,  "  and  per- 
haps then  you  will  be  teUing  me  of  a  Sun- 
beam ashore,  as  well  as  that  you  sail  from 
Ardrossan  to  the  far  away  islands  !  " 

He  stared  at  her  as  one  who  hears  ill. 
Then  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  let  it  go 
suddenly  again.  With  one  arm  he  rubbed 
the  rough  Uist  cap  he  held  in  his  left  hand ; 
then  he  brushed  off  the  wet  mist  that  was 
gray  on  his  thick  black  beard. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Fearghas-mo-char- 
aid,"  my  mother  said,  and  gently.  When 
she  saw  the  staring  pain  in  his  eyes,  she 
added,  with  a  low  sob,  "  My  heart  is  sore  for 
you  !  " 

With  that  he  turned  away,  and  she  saw 
251 


The  Shadow-Seers 

him  no  more,  that  day  or  any  day  of  all  the 
days  to  come. 

"And  what  thing  happened,  Coll?" 
"They  kept  it  from  her,  and  she  did 
not  know  it  for  long.  It  was  this :  Fergus 
McEwan  did  not  sail  far  that  morning.  He 
was  ill,  he  said,  and  was  put  ashore.  That 
night  Aulay  Macaulay  saw  him  moving  about 
in  that  frightful  place  of  the  Storr  Rock, 
moaning  and  muttering.  He  would  have 
spoken  to  him,  but  he  saw  him  begin  to  leap 
about  the  pinnacled  rocks  like  a  goat,  and 
at  last  run  up  to  The  Old  Man  of  Storr  and 
beat  it  with  his  clinched  fists,  blaspheming  with 
wild  words ;  and  he  feared  Fergus  was  mad, 
and  he  slipped  from  shadow  to  shadow,  till 
he  fled  openly.  But  in  the  morning  Aulay 
and  his  brother  Finlay  went  back  to  look  for 
Fergus.  At  first  they  thought  he  had  been 
drowned,  or  had  fallen  into  one  of  the  fis- 
sures. But  from  a  balachan,  a  *  bit  laddie,'  as 
they  would  call  him  in  the  to\vn  over  the  way 
[Oban],  they  heard  that  a  man  had  pushed 
off  that  morning  in  John  Macpherson's  boat, 
that  lay  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the 
Storr,  and  had  sailed  north  along  the  coast. 

2^2 


The  Shadow-Seers 

"  Well,  it  was  three  days  before  he  was 
found  —  stone-dead.  If  you  know  the  Qui- 
raing  you  will  know  the  great  Needle  Rock. 
Only  a  bird  can  climb  it,  as  the  saying  goes. 
Half-way  up,  Finlay  Macaulay  and  a  man  of 
the  neighbourhood  saw  the  body  o'  Fergus  as 
though  it  were  glued  to  the  rock.  It  was 
windless  weather,  for  he  would  have  blown 
away  like  a  drifted  leaf.  They  had  to  jerk 
the  body  down  with  net-poles.  God  save  us 
the  dark  hour  of  Fergus,  that  died  like  a 
wild  beast !  " 


253 


Ill 

THE    WHITE    FEVER 

ONE  night,  before  the  peats,  I  was  told 
this  thing  by  old  Cairstine  Macdon- 
ald,  in  the  isle  of  Benbecula.  It  is  in  her 
words  that  I  give  it : 


In  the  spring  of  the  year  that  my  boy 
Tormaid  died,  the  moon-daisies  were  as  thick 
as  a  woven  shroud  over  the  place  where 
Giorsal,  the  daughter  of  Ian,  the  son  of  Ian 
MacLeod  of  Bailie  'n  Bad-a-sgailich,  slept 
night  and  day.^ 

All  that  March  the  cormorants  screamed, 
famished.     There  were  few  fish  in  the  sea, 

1  Bailie  ^n  Bad-a-sgailch :  the  Farm  of  the  Shad- 
owy Clump  of  Trees.  Cairstine,  or  Cairistine,  is 
the  Gaelic  for  Christian,  as  Tormaid  is  for  Norman, 
and  Giorsal  for  Grace.  "  The  quiet  havens  "  is  the 
beautiful  island  phrase  for  graves.  Here,  also,  a 
swift  and  fatal  consumption  that  falls  upon  the 
doomed  is  called  "The  White  Fever."  By  "the 
mainland,"  Harris  and  Lewis  are  meant. 


The  Shadow-Seers 

and  no  kelp-weed  was  washed  up  by  the 
high  tides.  In  the  island  and  in  the  near 
isles,  ay,  and  far  north  through  the  main- 
land, the  blight  lay.  Many  sickened.  I 
knew  young  mothers  who  had  no  milk. 
There  are  green  mounds  in  Carnan  kirk- 
yard  that  will  be  telling  you  of  what  this 
meant.  Here  and  there  are  httle  green 
mounds,  each  so  small  that  you  might  cuddle 
it  in  your  arm  under  your  plaid. 

Tormaid  sickened.  A  bad  day  was  that 
for  him  when  he  came  home,  weary  with 
the  sea,  and  drenched  to  the  skin,  because 
of  a  gale  that  caught  him  and  his  mates  off 
Barra  Head.  When  the  March  winds  tore 
down  the  Minch,  and  leaped  out  from  over 
the  Cuchullins,  and  came  west,  and  lay 
against  our  homes,  where  the  peats  were 
sodden  and  there  was  little  food,  the  minis- 
ter told  me  that  my  lad  would  be  in  the  quiet 
havens  before  long.  This  was  because  of 
the  white  fever.  It  was  of  that  same  that 
Giorsal  waned,  and  went  out  like  a  thin  flame 
in  sunlight. 

The  son  of  my  man  (years  ago  weary  no 
more)  said  little  ever.  He  ate  nothing 
255 


The  Shadow-Seers 

almost,  even  of  the  next  to  nothing  we 
had.  At  nights  he  couldna  sleep  because 
of  the  cough.  The  coming  of  May  lifted 
him  awhile.  I  hoped  he  would  see  the 
autumn ;  and  that  if  he  did,  and  the  herring 
came,  and  the  harvest  was  had,  and  what  wi' 
this  and  what  wi'  that,  he  would  forget  his 
Giorsal  that  lay  i'  the  mools  in  the  quiet 
place  yonder.  Maybe  then,  I  thought,  the 
sorrow  would  go,  and  take  its  shadow  with  it. 

One  gloaming  he  came  in  with  all  the 
whiteness  of  his  wasted  body  in  his  face. 
His  heart  was  out  of  its  shell;  and  mine, 
too,  at  the  sight  of  him.-^ 

This  was  in  the  season  of  the  hanging  of 
the  dog's  mouth. 

"What  is  it,  Tormaid-a-ghaolach ? "  I 
asked,  with  the  sob  that  was  in  my  throat. 

"  Thraisg  7710  chridhe^^  he  muttered  (my 

1  A  cochall  a'  chridhe :  his  heart  out  of  its  shell  — 
a  phrase  often  used  to  express  sudden  derangement 
from  any  shock.  The  ensuing  phrase  means  the 
month  from  the  15th  of  July  to  the  15th  of  August, 
Alios  crochaidh  nan  con,  so  called  as  it  is  supposed 
to  be  the  hottest  if  not  the  most  waterless  month  in 
the  isles.  The  word  daar  used  below,  is  the  name 
given  a  small  wooden  tub,  into  which  the  potatoes 
are  turned  when  boiled. 

256 


The  Shadow-Seers 

heart  is  parched).     Then,  feeling  the  asking 
in  my  eyes,  he  said,  "  I  have  seen  her." 

I  knew  he  meant  Giorsal.  My  heart  sank. 
But  I  wore  my  nails  into  the  palms  of  my 
hands.  Then  I  said  this  thing,  that  is  an 
old  saying  in  the  isles  :  "  Those  who  are  in 
the  quiet  havens  hear  neither  the  wind  nor 
the  sea."  He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  lie 
down  in  the  bed.  He  was  in  the  big  chair 
before  the  peats,  with  his  feet  on  a  daar. 

When  the  wind  was  still  I  read  him  the 
Word.  A  little  warm  milk  was  all  he  would 
take.  I  could  hear  the  blood  in  his  lungs 
sobbing  like  the  ebb-tide  in  the  sea-weed. 
This  was  the  thing  that  he  said  to  me : 

"  She  came  to  me,  hke  a  gray  mist,  beyond 
the  dyke  of  the  green  place,  near  the  road. 
The  face  of  her  was  gray  as  a  gray  dawn,  but 
the  voice  was  hers,  though  I  heard  it  under  a 
wave,  so  dull  and  far  was  it.  And  these  are 
her  words  to  me,  and  mine  to  her  —  and 
the  first  speaking  was  mine,  for  the  silence 
wore  me : 

Am  bheil  thu'  falbh, 
O  mo  ghraidh  ? 
BUdh  mi  falbh, 

Muirnean  I 
17  257 


The  Shadow-Seers 

C'uin  a  thilleas  tu, 

O  mo  ghraidh  ? 

Cha  till  mi  an  rathad  so  ; 
Tha  an  V  ait  e  cumhann  — 

O  miiirttean,  muirnean  ! 
BHdh  mifalbh  an  drugh 
Ant  tigh  Fharais, 
Miiirfiean  ! 

S^ol  dhomh  an  rathad, 
Mo  ghraidh ! 

Thig  an  so  Muirnean-mo, 
Thig  an  so  ! 


Are  you  going, 

My  dear  one  ? 

Yea^  now  I  am  going, 
Dearest. 

When  will  you  come  again, 
My  dear  one  ? 
/  will  not  return  this  way  ; 
The  place  is  narrow  — 
O  my  darling  ! 
I  will  be  going  to  Paradise, 
Dear,  my  dear  one  ! 

Show  me  the  way, 

Heart  of  my  heart ! 

Come  hither,  dearest,  co7ne  hither. 
Come  with  me  ! 

258 


The  Shadow-Seers 

"  And  then  I  saw  that  it  was  a  mist,  and 
that  I  was  alone.  But  now  this  night  it  is 
that  I  feel  the  breath  on  the  soles  of  my 
feet." 

And  with  that  I  knew  there  was  no  hope. 
"  Ma  tha  sin  a?i  dan  /  ...  if  that  be  or- 
dained," was  all  that  rose  to  my  lips.  It  was 
that  night  he  died.  I  fell  asleep  in  the 
second  hour.  When  I  woke  in  the  gray 
dawn,  his  face  was  grayer  than  that  and 
more  cold. 


259 


IV 

THE    SMOOTHING    OF    THE    HAND 

GLAD  am  I  that  wherever  and  whenever 
I  listen  intently  I  can  hear  the  looms 
of  Nature  weaving  Beauty  and  Music.  But 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  things  are  learned 
otherwise  —  by  hazard,  in  the  Way  of  Pain, 
or  at  the  Gate  of  Sorrow. 

I  learned  two  things  on  the  day  when  I 
saw  Sheumas  Mclan  dead  upon  the  heather. 
He  of  whom  I  speak  was  the  son  of  Ian 
Mclan  Alltnalee,  but  was  known  throughout 
the  home  straths  and  the  countries  beyond 
as  Sheumas  Dhu,  Black  James,  or,  to  render 
the  subtler  meaning  implied  in  this  instance, 
James  the  Dark  One.  I  had  wondered  oc- 
casionally at  the  designation,  because  Sheu- 
mas, if  not  exactly  fair,  was  not  dark.  But 
the  name  was  given  to  him,  as  I  learned 
later,  because,  as  commonly  rumoured,  he 
knew  that  which  he  should  not  have  known. 
260 


The  Shadow-Seers 

I  had  been  spending  some  weeks  with 
Alasdair  Mclan  and  his  wife  Silis  (who  was 
my  foster-sister),  at  their  farm  of  Ardoch, 
high  in  a  remote  hill  country.  One  night 
we  were  sitting  before  the  peats,  listening  to 
the  wind  crying  amid  the  corries,  though, 
ominously  as  it  seemed  to  us,  there  was  not 
a  breath  in  the  rowan-tree  that  grew  in  the 
sun's-way  by  the  house.  Silis  had  been 
singing,  but  silence  had  come  upon  us.  In 
the  warm  glow  from  the  fire  we  saw  each 
others'  faces.  There  the  silence  lay,  strangely 
still  and  beautiful,  as  snow  in  moonlight. 
Silis 's  song  was  one  of  the  Dana  Spioradail, 
known  in  Gaelic  as  the  Hymn  of  the  Looms. 
I  cannot  recall  it,  nor  have  I  ever  heard  or 
in  any  way  encountered  it  again. 

It  had  a  lovely  refrain,  I  know  not  whether 
its  own  or  added  by  Silis.  I  have  heard  her 
chant  it  to  other  runes  and  songs.  Now, 
when  too  late,  my  regret  is  deep  that  I  did 
not  take  from  her  lips  more  of  those  sorrow- 
ful strange  songs  or  chants,  with  their  ancient 
Celtic  melodies,  so  full  of  haunting  sweet 
melancholy,  which  she  loved  so  well.  It 
was  with  this  refrain  that,  after  a  long  still- 
261 


The  Shadow-Seers 

ness,  she  startled  us  that  October  night.  I 
remember  the  sudden  Hght  in  the  eyes  of 
Alasdair  Mclan,  and  the  beat  at  my  heart, 
when,  like  rain  in  a  wood,  her  voice  fell 
unawares  upon  us  out  of  the  silence  : 

Oh  !  oh !  ohrone,  arone  !      Oh  !    Oh  !  mo  ghraidh, 

mo  chridhe  ! 
Oh!  oh  !  mo  ghraidh,  mo  chridhe  !  ^ 

The  wail,  and  the  sudden  break  in  the 
second  line,  had  always  upon  me  an  effect 
of  inexpressible  pathos.  Often  that  sad 
wind-song  has  been  in  my  ears,  when  I 
have  been  thinking  of  many  things  that  are 
passed  and  are  passing. 

I  know  not  what  made  Silis  so  abruptly 
begin  to  sing,  and  with  that  wailing  couplet 
only,  or  why  she  lapsed  at  once  into  silence 
again.  Indeed,  my  remembrance  of  the 
incident  at  all  is  due  to  the  circumstance 
that  shortly  after  Silis  had  turned  her  face 
to  the  peats  again,  a  knock  came  to  the 
door,  and  then  Sheumas  Dhu  entered. 

"  Why  do  you  sing  that  lament,  Silis,  sister 

1  Pronounce  mogh-ray,  mogh-ree  (my  heart's  de- 
light —  lit.,  my  dear  one,  my  heart). 
262 


The  Shadow-Seers 

of  my  father?  "  he  asked,  after  he  had  seated 
himself  beside  me,  and  spread  his  thin  hands 
against  the  peat  glow,  so  that  the  flame 
seemed  to  enter  within  the  flesh. 

Silis  turned  to  her  nephew,  and  looked  at 
him,  as  I  thought,  questioningly.  But  she 
did  not  speak.  He,  too,  said  nothing  more, 
either  forgetful  of  his  question,  or  content 
with  what  he  had  learned  or  failed  to  learn 
through  her  silence. 

The  wind  had  come  down  from  the  cor- 
ries  before  Sheumas  rose  to  go.  He  said  he 
was  not  returning  to  AUtnalee,  but  was  going 
upon  the  hill,  for  a  big  herd  of  deer  had 
come  over  the  ridge  of  Mel-Mor.  Sheumas, 
though  skilled  in  all  hill  and  forest  craft,  was 
not  a  sure  shot,  as  was  his  kinsman  and  my 
host,  Alasdair  Mclan. 

"  You  will  need  help,"  I  remember  Alas- 
dair Ardoch  saying,  mockingly,  adding,  '*  Co 
dhiubh  is  fJiearr  let  mise  thoir  sealladh  na 
faileadh  dhiubh  ?  " — that  is  to  say.  Whether 
would  you  rather  me  to  deprive  them  of 
sight  or  smell? 

This  is  a  familiar  saying  among  the  old 
sportsmen  in  my  country,  where  it  is  be- 
263 


The  Shadow-Seers 

lieved  that  a  few  favoured  individuals  have 
the  power  to  deprive  deer  of  either  sight 
or  smell,  as  the  occasion  suggests. 

"  Dhuit  ciar  nan  earn  !  —  The  gloom  of 
the  rocks  be  upon  you  ! "  repUed  Sheumas, 
sullenly;  "mayhap  the  hour  is  come  when 
the  red  stag  will  sniff  at  my  nostrils." 

With  that  dark  saying  he  went.  None  of 
us  saw  him  again  alive. 

Was  it  a  forewarning?  I  have  often  won- 
dered.    Or  had  he  sight  of  the  shadow? 

It  was  three  days  after  this,  and  shortly 
after  sunrise,  that,  on  crossing  the  south 
slope  of  Mel  Mor  with  Alasdair  Ardoch,  we 
came  suddenly  upon  the  body  of  Sheumas, 
half  submerged  in  a  purple  billow  of  heather. 
It  did  not,  at  the  moment,  occur  to  me  that 
he  was  dead.  I  had  not  known  that  his 
prolonged  absence  had  been  noted,  or  that 
he  had  been  searched  for.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  must  have  died  immediately  before 
our  approach,  for  his  limbs  were  still  loose, 
and  he  lay  as  a  sleeper  lies. 

Alasdair  kneeled  and  raised  his  kins- 
man's head.  When  it  lay  upon  the  purple 
tussock,  the  warmth  and  glow  from  the 
264 


The  Shadow-Seers 

sunlit  ling  gave  a  fugitive  deceptive  light  to 
the  pale  face.  I  know  not  whether  the  sun 
can  have  any  chemic  action  upon  the  dead. 
But  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  dream  rose  to 
the  face  of  Sheumas,  like  one  of  those  sub- 
marine flowers  that  are  said  to  rise  at  times 
and  be  visible  for  a  moment  in  the  hollow  of 
a  wave.  The  dream,  the  light,  waned ;  and 
there  was  a  great  stillness  and  white  peace 
where  the  trouble  had  been.  "  It  is  the 
Smoothing  of  the  Hand,  '  said  Alasdair 
Mclan,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

Often  I  had  heard  this  lovely  phrase  in 
the  Western  Isles,  but  always  as  applied 
to  sleep.  When  a  fretful  child  suddenly 
falls  into  quietude  and  deep  slumber,  an 
isles-woman  will  say  that  it  is  because  of 
the  Smoothing  of  the  Hand.  It  is  always 
a  profound  sleep,  and  there  are  some  who 
hold  it  almost  as  a  sacred  thing,  and  never 
to  be  disturbed. 

So,  thinking  only  of  this,  I  whispered  to 
my  friend  to  come  away ;  that  Sheumas  was 
dead  weary  with  hunting  upon  the  hills ;  that 
he  would  awake  in  due  time. 

Mclan  looked  at  me,  hesitated,  and  said 
265 


The  Shadow-Seers 

nothing.  I  saw  him  glance  around.  A  few 
yards  away,  beside  a  great  boulder  in  the 
heather,  a  small  rowan  stood,  flickering  its 
featheriike  shadows  across  the  white  wool  of 
a  ewe  resting  underneath.  He  moved 
thitherward  slowly, "plucked  a  branch  heavy 
with  scarlet  berries,  and  then,  having  returned, 
laid  it  across  the  breast  of  his  kinsman. 

I  knew  now  what  was  that  passing  of  the 
trouble  in  the  face  of  Sheumas  Dhu,  what 
that  sudden  light  was,  that  calming  of  the 
sea,  that  ineffable  quietude.  It  was  the 
Smoothing  of  the  Hand. 


266 


SEANACHAS 


267 


SEANACHAS^ 

THE  SONG   OF  THE  SWORD 
THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE   CULDEES. 
MIRCA  TH. 

THE    LAUGHTER     OF    SCATHACH    THE 

QUEEN. 

1  The  word  "  Seanachas  "  means  either  tradition- 
ary lore,  or  "telling  of  tales  of  the  olden  time"  — 
and  it  is  in  this  sense  that  it  is  used  here. 


268 


THE    SONG   OF   THE    SWORD 


269 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   SWORD 

THESE  are  of  the  Seanachas  told  me  by 
Ian  Cameron  ("Ian  Mor"),  before 
the  flaming  peats,  at  a  hill-shealing,  in  a 
season  when  the  premature  snows  found  the 
bracken  still  golden  and  the  ptarmigan  with 
their  autumn  browns  no  more  than  flecked 
and  mottled  with  gray. 

He  has  himself  now  a  quieter  sleep  than 
the  sound  of  that  falling  snow,  and  it  is 
three  years  since  his  face  became  as  white 
and  as  cold. 

He  had  pleasure  in  telling  sgeul  after 
sgeul  of  the  ancient  days.  Far  more  readily 
at  all  times  would  he  repeat  stories  of  this 
dim  past  he  loved  so  well  than  the  more 
intimate  tales  which  had  his  own  pulse  beat- 
ing in  them,  as  "  The  Daughter  of  the  Sun  " 
and  others  that  I  have  given  elsewhere. 
Often  he  would  look  up  from  where  he  held 
his  face  in  his  hands  as  he  brooded  into  the 
271 


The   Song  of  the  Sword 

dull  steadfast  flame  that  consumed  the  core 
of  the  peats ;  and  without  preamble,  and  with 
words  in  no  apparent  way  linked  to  those 
last  spoken,  would  narrate  some  brief  epi- 
sode, and  always  as  one  who  had  witnessed 
the  event.  Sometimes,  indeed,  these  brief 
tales  were  like  waves :  one  saw  them  rise, 
congregate,  and  expand  in  a  dark  billow  — 
and  the  next  moment  there  was  a  vanishing 
puff  of  spray  and  the  billow  had  lapsed. 

I  cannot  recall  many  of  these  fugitive 
tales  —  seanachas,  as  he  spoke  of  them  col- 
lectively, for  each  sgeiil  was  of  the  past,  and 
had  its  roots  in  legendary  lore  —  but  of 
those  that  remained  with  me,  here  are  four. 
All  came  upon  me  as  birds  flying  in  the 
dark :  I  knew  not  whence  they  came  or 
upon  what  wind  they  had  steered  their  mys- 
terious course.  They  were  there,  that  was 
all.  Ancient  things  come  again  in  lan's 
brain :  or  recovered  out  of  the  dim  days, 
and  seen  anew  through  the  wonder-lens  of 
his  imagination. 


272 


1 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

It  was  in  a  white  June,  as  they  call  it,  in  the 
third  year  after  the  pirates  of  Lochlin  had 
fed  the  corbies  of  the  Hebrid  Isles,  that  the 
summer-sailors  once  more  came  down  the 
Minch  of  Skye. 

An  east  wind  blew  fresh  from  the  moun- 
tains, though  between  dawn  and  sunrise  it 
veered  till  it  chilled  itself  upon  the  granite 
peaks  of  the  CuchuUins,  and  then  leaped 
north-westward  with  the  white  foam  of  its 
feet  caught  from  behind  by  the  sun-glint. 

The  vikings  on  board  the  Svart-Alf  laughed 
at  that.  The  spray  flew  from  the  curved 
black  prow  of  the  great  galley,  and  the  wake 
danced  in  the  dazzle  —  the  sea-cream  that 
they  loved  to  see. 

Tall  men  they  were,  and  comely.  Their 
locks  of  yellow  or  golden  or  ruddy  hair, 
sometimes  braided,  sometimes  all  acurl  like  a 
chestnut-tree  bud-breaking  in  April,  some- 
times tangled  like  sea-wrack  caught  in  a 
whirl  of  wind  and  tide,  streamed  upon  their 
shoulders.  In  their  blue  eyes  was  a  shining 
as  though  there  were  torches  of  white  flame 
behind  them  :  and  that  shining  was  mild  or 
fierce  as  home  or  blood  filled  their  brain. 
i8  273 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

The  Svart-Alf  was  the  storm-bird  of  a 
fleet  of  thirty  galleys  which  had  set  forth 
from  Lochlin  under  the  raven-banner  of 
Olaus  the  White.  The  vikings  had  joyed  in 
a  good  faring.  Singing  south  winds  had 
blown  them  to  the  Faroe  Isles,  where  from 
Magnus  Cleft-Hand  they  had  good  cheer, 
and  the  hire  of  three  men  who  knew  the 
Western  Isles  and  had  been  with  the  sea- 
kings  who  had  harried  them  here  and  there 
again  and  again. 

From  Magnus-stead  they  went  forth 
swelled  with  mead  and  ale  and  cow-beef: 
and  they  laughed  because  of  what  they  would 
give  in  payment  on  their  way  back  with 
golden  torques  and  bracelets  and  other  treas- 
ure, young  slaves,  women  dark  and  fair,  and 
the  jewel-hilted  weapons  of  the  island-lords. 

Cold  black  winds  out  of  the  north-east 
drove  them  straight  upon  the  Ord  of  Suther- 
land. They  sang  with  joy  the  noon  when 
they  rounded  Cape  Wrath  and  came  under 
the  shadow  of  the  hills.  The  dawn  that 
followed  was  red  not  only  in  the  sky  but  on 
the  sheen  of  the  sword-blades.  It  was  the 
Song  of  the  Sword  that  day,  and  there  is  no 
274 


The   Song  of  the   Sword 

song  like  that  for  the  flaming  of  the  blood. 
The  dark  men  of  Torridon  were  caught 
unawares.  For  seven  days  thereafter  the 
corbies  and  ravens  glutted  themselves  drink- 
ing at  red  pools  beside  the  stripped  bodies 
which  lay  stark  and  stiff  upon  the  heather. 
The  firing  of  a  score  of  homesteads  smoul- 
dered till  the  rains  came,  a  day  and  two 
nights  after  the  old  women  who  had  been 
driven  to  the  moors  stole  back  wailing.  The 
maids  and  wives  were  carried  off  in  the 
galleys :  and  for  nine  days,  at  a  haven  in  the 
lone  coast  opposite  the  Summer  Isles,  their 
tears,  their  laughter,  their  sullen  anger,  their 
wild  gaiety,  their  passionate  despair  gave 
joy  to  the  yellow-haired  men.  On  the  ninth 
day  they  were  carried  southward  on  the 
summer-sailing.  At  a  place  called  Craig- 
Feeach,  Raven's  Crag,  in  the  ;  .orth  of  Skye, 
where  a  Norse  Erl  had  a  great  Dun  that  he 
had  taken  from  the  son  of  a  king  from 
Eir^ann  whose  sea-nest  it  had  been,  Olaus 
the  White  rested  awhile.  The  women  were 
left  there  as  a  free  spoil :  save  three  who 
were  so  fair  that  Olaus  kept  one,  and  Haco 
and  Sweno  his  chief  captains  took  the  others. 
275 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

Then,  on  an  evening  when  the  wind  was 
from  the  north,  Olaus  and  ten  galleys  went 
down  the  sound.  Sweno  the  Hammerer  was 
to  strike  across  the  west  for  the  great  island 
that  is  called  Lewis :  Haco  the  Laugher 
was  to  steer  for  the  island  that  is  called 
Harris :  and  Olaus  himself  was  to  reach  the 
haven  called  Ljotr-wick  in  the  Isle  of  the 
Thousand  Waters  that  is  Benbecula. 

On  the  eve  of  the  day  following  that  sail- 
ing a  wild  wind  sprang  up,  blowing  straight 
against  the  north.  All  of  the  south-faring 
galleys  save  one  made  for  haven,  though  it 
was  a  savage  coast  which  lay  along  the  south 
of  Skye.  In  the  darkness  of  the  storm 
Olaus  thought  that  the  other  nine  wave- 
steeds  were  following  him,  and  he  drove  be- 
fore the  gale,  with  his  men  crouching  under 
the  lee  of  the  bulwarks,  and  with  Finnleikr 
the  Harper  singing  a  wild  song  of  sea-foam 
and  flowing  blood  and  the  whirling  of  swords. 

The  gale  was  nigh  spent  three  hours  after 
dawn :  but  the  green  seas  were  like  snow- 
crowned  hillocks  that  roll  in  earth-drunken- 
ness when  the  flames  surge  from  blazing 
mountains.  Olaus  knew  that  no  boat  could 
276 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

live  in  that  sea,  except  it  went  before  the 
wind.  So,  though  not  a  galley  was  in  sight, 
he  fared  steadily  westward. 

By  sundown  the  wind  had  swung  out  of 
the  south  into  the  east :  and  by  midnight  the 
stars  were  shining  clear.  In  the  blue-dark 
could  be  seen  the  white  wings  of  the  fulmars, 
seaward- drifting  once  again  from  the  rocks 
whither  they  had  fled. 

Then  came  the  dawn  when  the  sun-rain 
streamed  gladly,  and  a  fresh  east  wind  blew 
across  the  Minch,  and  the  Svart-Alfy  that 
had  been  driven  far  northward,  came  leaping 
south-westwardly,  with  laughter  and  fierce 
shining  of  sky-blue  eyes,  where  the  vikings 
toiled  at  the  oars,  or  burnished  their  brine- 
stained  swords  and  javelins. 

All  day  they  fared  joyously  thus.  Behind 
them  they  could  see  the  blue  line  of  the 
mainland  and  the  dark-blue  mountain-crests 
of  Skye  :  southward  was  a  long  green  film, 
where  Coll  caught  the  waves  ere  they  drove 
upon  Tiree ;  south-eastward,  the  gray- blue 
peaks  of  Halival  and  Haskival  rose  out  of 
the  Isle  of  Terror,  as  Rum  was  then  called. 
Before  them,  as  far  as  they  could  see  to 
277 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

north  or  south,  the  purple-gray  lines  that 
rose  out  of  the  west  were  the  contours  of 
the  Hebrides. 

"Dost  thou  see  yonder  blue  splatch, 
Morna?"  cried  Olaus  the  White  to  the 
woman  who  lay  indolently  by  his  side,  and 
watched  the  sun-gold  redden  the  mass  of 
ruddy  hair  which  she  had  sprayed  upon  the 
boards,  a  net  wherein  to  mesh  the  eyes  of 
the  vikings,  "  do  you  see  that  blue  splatch  ? 
I  know  what  it  is.  It  is  the  headland  that 
Olaf  the  Furious  called  Skipness.  Behind  it 
is  a  long  fjord  in  two  forks.  At  the  end  of 
the  south  fork  is  a  place  of  the  white-robes 
whom  the  islanders  call  Culdees.  Midway 
on  the  eastern  bend  of  the  north  fork  is  a 
town  of  a  hundred  families.  Over  both 
rules  MaoHosa,  a  warrior-priest,  and  under 
him,  at  the  town,  is  a  graybeard  called 
Rumun  mac  Coag.  All  this  I  have  learned 
from  Anlaf  the  Swarthy,  who  came  with  us 
out  of  Faroe." 

Morna  glanced  at  him  under  her  drooped 

eyelids.     Sure,  he  was  fair  to  see,  for  all  that 

his  long  hair  was  white.     White  it  had  gone 

with   the   terror  of  a  night  on  an  ice-floe^ 

278 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

whereon  a  man  who  hated  the  young  erl  had 
set  him  adrift  with  seven  wolves.  He  had 
slain  three,  and  drowned  three,  and  one  had 
leaped  into  the  sea  :  and  then  he  had  lain  on 
the  ice,  with  snow  for  a  pillow,  and  in  the  dawn 
his  hair  was  the  same  as  the  snow.  This  was 
but  ten  years  ago,  when  he  was  a  youth. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  when  she  spoke  it 
was  in  the  slow  lazy  speech  that  in  his  ears 
was  drowsy-sweet  as  the  hum  of  the  hives  in 
the  steading  where  his  home  was. 

"  It  will  be  a  red  sleep  the  men  of  that 
town  will  be  having  soon,  I  am  thinking, 
Olaus.  And  the  women  will  not  be  carding 
wool  when  the  moon  rises  to-morrow  night. 
And  .  .  . 

The  fair  woman  stopped  suddenly.  Olaus 
saw  her  eyes  darken. 

«  Olaus  !  " 

"  I  listen." 

"  If  there  is  a  woman  there  that  you  desire 
more  than  me  I  will  give  her  a  gift." 

Olaus  laughed. 

"  Keep  your  knife  in  your  girdle  Morna. 
Who  knows   but  you  may  need  it  soon  to 
save  yourself  from  a  Culdee  !  " 
279 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

"Bah.  These  white-robed  men-women 
have  nought  to  do  with  us.  I  fear  no  man, 
Olaus :  but  I  have  a  blade  for  the  woman 
who  will  dazzle  your  eyes." 

"  Have  no  fear,  white  wolf.  The  sea- 
wolf  knows  his  mate  when  he  has  found 
her  ! " 

An  hour  after  sun-setting  a  mist  came  up. 
The  wind  freshened.  Olaus  made  silence 
throughout  the  war-galley.  The  vikings  had 
muffled  their  oars,  for  the  noise  of  the  waves 
on  the  shore  could  now  be  heard.  Hour  after 
hour  went  by.  When,  at  last,  the  moonlight 
tore  a  rift  in  the  haar,  and  suddenly  the 
vapour  was  Hcked  up  by  a  wind  moving  out 
of  the  north,  they  saw  that  they  were  close 
upon  the  land,  and  right  eastward  of  the 
headland  of  Skipness. 

Anlaf  the  Swarthy  went  to  the  prow. 
Blackly  he  loomed  in  the  moonlight  as  he 
stood  there,  poising  his  long  spear,  and 
sounding  the  depths  while  the  vessel  slowly 
forged  shoreward.  By  the  time  a  haven  was 
found,  and  the  vikings  stood  silent  upon  the 
rocks,  the  night  was  yellow  with  moonshine, 
and  the  brown  earth  overlaid  with  a  soft 
280 


The  Song  of  the   Sword 

white  sheen  wherein  the  long  shadows  lay 
palely  blue. 

There  was  deep  peace  in  the  island-town. 
The  kye  were  in  the  sea-pastures  near,  and 
even  the  dogs  slept.  There  had  been  no 
ill  for  long,  and  Rumun  mac  Coag  was  an 
old  man,  and  dreamed  overmuch  about  his 
soul.  This  was  because  of  the  teaching  of 
the  Culdees.  Before  he  had  known  he  had 
a  soul  he  was  a  man,  and  would  not  have 
been  taken  unawares  —  and  he  over-lord  of  a 
sea-town  like  Bail'-tiorail. 

Olaus  the  White  made  a  wide  circuit  with 
his  men.     Then,  slowly,  the  circle  narrowed. 

A  bull  lowed,  where  it  stood  among  the 
sea-grass,  stamping  uneasily,  and  ever  and 
again  sniffing  the  air.  Suddenly  one  heifer, 
then  another,  then  all  the  kye,  began  a 
strange  lowing.  The  dogs  rose,  with  brist- 
ling felts,  and  crawled  sidelong,  snarling, 
with  red  eyes  gleaming  savagely. 

Bethoc,  the  young  third  wife  of  Rumun,  was 
awake,  dreaming  of  a  man  out  of  Eireann 
who  had  that  day  given  her  a  strange  pleas- 
ure with  his  harp  and  his  dusky  eyes.  She 
knew  that  lowing.     It  was  the  latiganaich  an 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

aghaidh  am  allamharach,  the  continued 
lowing  against  the  stranger.  She  rose 
hghtly,  and  unfastened  the  leather  flap,  and 
looked  down  from  the  grianan  where  she 
was.  A  man  stood  there  in  the  shadow. 
She  thought  it  was  the  harper.  With  a  low 
sigh  she  leaned  downward  to  kiss  him,  and 
to  whisper  a  word  in  his  ear. 

Her  long  hair  fell  over  her  eyes  and  face 
and  blinded  her.  She  felt  it  grasped,  and 
put  out  her  hand.  It  was  seized,  and  before 
she  knew  what  was  come  upon  her  she  was 
dragged  prone  upon  the  man. 

Then,  in  a  flash,  she  saw  he  had  yellow 
hair,  and  was  clad  as  a  Norseman.  She 
gasped.  If  the  sea-rovers  were  come,  it  was 
death  for  all  there.  The  man  whispered  some- 
thing in  a  tongue  that  was  strange  to  her. 
She  understood  better  when  he  put  his  arm 
about  her,  and  placed  a  hand  upon  her  mouth. 

Bethoc  stood  silent.  Why  did  no  one 
hear  that  lowing  of  the  kine,  that  snarling 
of  the  dogs  which  had  now  grown  into  a 
loud  continuous  baying?  The  man  by  her 
side  thought  she  was  cowed,  or  had  accepted 
the  change  of  fate.     He  left  her,  and  put 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

his  foot  in  a  cleft.  Then,  sword  under  his 
chin,  he  began  to  chmb  stealthily. 

He  had  thrown  his  spear  upon  the  ground. 
Soundlessly  Bethoc  stepped  forward,  lifted  it, 
and  moved  forward  like  a  shadow. 

A  wild  cry  rang  through  the  night.  There 
was  a  gurgling  and  spurting  sound  as  of 
dammed  water  adrip.  Rumun  sprang  from 
his  couch,  and  stared  out  of  the  aperture. 
Beneath  he  saw  a  man,  speared  through  the 
back,  and  pinned  to  the  soft  wood.  His 
hands  claspt  the  frayed  deer-skins,  and  his 
head  lay  upon  his  shoulder.  He  was  laugh- 
ing horribly.  A  bubbling  of  foam  frothed 
continuously  out  of  his  mouth. 

The  next  moment  Rumun  saw  Bethoc. 
He  had  not  time  to  call  to  her  before  a  man 
sHpped  out  of  the  shadow,  and  plunged  a 
sword  through  her  till  the  point  dripped  red 
drops  upon  the  grass  beyond  where  she 
stood.  She  gave  no  cry,  but  fell  as  a  gannet 
falls.  A  black  shadow  darted  across  the 
gloom.  A  crash,  a  scream,  and  Rumun 
sank  inert,  with  an  arrow  fixed  midway  in  his 
head  through  the  brows. 

Then  there  was  a  fierce  tumult  everywhere. 
283 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

From  the  pastures  the  kye  ran  lowing  and 
bellowing,  in  a  wild  stampede.  The  neigh- 
ing of  horses  broke  into  screams.  Here  and 
there  red  flames  burst  forth,  and  leapt  from 
hut  to  hut.  Soon  the  whole  rath  was  aflame. 
Round  the  dun  of  Rumun  a  wall  of  swords 
flashed. 

All  had  taken  refuge  in  the  dun,  all  who 
had  escaped  the  first  slaying.  If  any  leaped 
forth,  it  was  upon  a  viking  spear,  or  if  the 
face  of  any  was  seen  it  was  the  targe  for  a 
swift- sure  arrow. 

A  long  penetrating  wail  went  up.  The 
Culdees,  on  the  further  loch,  heard  it,  and 
ran  from  their  cells.  The  loud  laughter  of 
the  sea-rovers  was  more  dreadful  to  them 
than  the  whirling  flames  and  the  wild  scream- 
ing lament  of  the  dying  and  the  doomed. 

None  came  forth  alive  out  of  that  d{in, 
save  three  men,  and  seven  women  that  were 
young.  Two  of  the  men  were  made  to  tell 
all  that  Olaus  the  White  wanted  to  know. 
Then  they  were  blinded,  and  put  in  a  boat, 
and  set  in  the  tide-eddy  that  would  take 
them  to  where  the  Culdees  were.  And,  for 
the  Culdees,  they  had  a  message  from  Olaus. 
284 


The  Song  of  the  Sword 

Of  the  seven  women  none  was  so  fair  that 
Morna  had  any  heed.  But  seven  men  had 
them  as  spoil.  Their  wild  keening  had  died 
away  into  a  silence  of  blank  despair  long 
before  the  dawn.  When  the  hght  came,  they 
were  huddled  in  a  white  group  near  the 
ashes  of  their  homes.  Everywhere  the  dead 
sprawled. 

At  sunrise  the  vikings  held  an  ale -feast. 
When  Olaus  the  White  had  drunken  and 
eaten,  he  left  his  men  and  went  down  to  the 
shore  to  look  upon  the  fortified  place  where 
MaoHosa  the  Culdee  and  his  white-robes 
lived.  As  he  fared  thither  through  what  had 
been  Bail'-tiorail  there  was  not  a  male  left 
alive  save  the  one  prisoner  who  had  been 
kept,  Aongas  the  Bow-maker  as  he  was 
called :  none  save  Aongas,  and  a  strayed 
child  among  the  salt  grasses  near  the  shore, 
a  little  boy,  naked  and  with  blue  eyes  and 
laughing  sunny  smile. 


285 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CULDEES 


287 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   CULDEES 

ON  the  wane  of  noon,  on  the  day  follow- 
ing the  ruin  of  Bail'-tiorail,  sails  were 
descried  far  east  of  Skipriess. 

Olaus  called  his  men  together.  The  boats 
coming  before  the  wind  were  doubtless  his 
own  galleys  which  he  had  lost  sight  of  when 
the  south -gale  had  blown  them  against  Skye  : 
but  no  man  can  know  when  and  how  the 
gods  may  smile  grimly,  and  let  the  swords 
that  whirl  be  broken  or  the  spears  that  are 
flat  become  a  hedge  of  death. 

An  hour  later,  a  startled  word  went  from 
viking  to  viking.  The  galleys  in  the  offing 
were  the  fleet  of  Sweno  the  Hammerer. 
Why  had  he  come  so  far  southward,  and 
why  were  oars  so  swift  and  with  the  stained 
sails  distended  before  the  wind? 

They  were  soon  to  know. 

Sweno  himself  was  the  first  to  land.  A 
19  289 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

man  he  was,  broad  and  burly,  with  a  sword- 
slash  across  his  face  that  brought  his  brows 
together  in  a  frown  which  made  a  perpetual 
dusk  above  his  savage  blood-shot  eyes. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  how  he  had  met  a 
galley,  with  only  half  its  crew,  and  of  these 
many  who  were  wounded.  It  was  the  last 
of  the  fleet  of  Haco  the  Laugher.  A  fleet 
of  fifteen  war-birlinns  had  set  out  from  the 
Long  Island,  and  had  given  battle.  Haco 
had  gone  into  the  strife  laughing  loud  as  was 
his  wont,  and  he  and  all  his  men  had  the 
berserk  rage,  and  fought  with  joy  and  foam 
at  the  mouth.  Never  had  the  Sword  sang  a 
sweeter  song. 

"Well,"  said  Olaus  the  White,  grimly, 
"well :  how  did  the  Raven  fly?  " 

"When  Haco  laughed  for  the  last  time, 
with  waving  sword  out  of  the  death  wherein 
he  sank,  there  was  only  one  galley  left.  Of 
all  that  company  of  vikings  there  were  no 
more  than  nine  to  tell  the  tale.  These  nine 
we  took  out  of  their  boat,  which  was  below 
waves  soon.  Haco  and  his  men  are  all  fight- 
ing the  sea-shadows  by  now." 

A  loud  snarling  went  from  man  to  man. 
290 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

This  became  a  wild  cry  of  rage.  Then  sav- 
age shouts  filled  the  air.  Swords  were  lifted 
up  against  the  sky,  and  the  fierce  glitter  of 
the  blue  eyes  and  the  bristling  of  the  tawny 
beards  were  fair  to  see,  thought  the  captive 
women,  though  their  hearts  beat  against  their 
ribs  like  eaglets  against  the  bars  of  a  cage. 

Sweno  the  Hammerer  frowned  a  deep 
frown  when  he  heard  that  Olaus  was  there 
with  only  the  Svart-Alf  out  of  the  galleys 
which  had  gone  the  southward  way. 

"  If  the  islanders  come  upon  us  now  with 
their  birlinns  we  shall  have  to  make  a  run- 
ning fight "  he  said. 

Olaus  laughed. 

"  Aye,  but  the  running  shall  be  after  the 
birlinns,  Sweno." 

"  I  hear  that  there  are  fifty  and  nine  men, 
of  these  Culdees  yonder,  under  the  sword- 
priest  Maoliosa?" 

"It  is  a  true  word.  But  to-night,  after 
the  moon  is  up,  there  shall  be  none." 

At  that,  all  who  heard  laughed,  and  were 
less  heavy  in  their  hearts  because  of  the 
slaying  and  drowning  of  Haco  the  Laugher 
and  all  his  crew. 

291 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

"Where  is  the  woman  Brenda  that  you 
took?  "  Olaus  asked,  as  he  stared  at  Sweno's 
boat  and  saw  no  woman  there. 

"  She  is  in  the  sea." 

Olaus  the  White  looked.  It  was  his  eyes 
that  asked. 

"I  flung  her  into  the  sea  because  she 
laughed  when  she  heard  of  how  the  birlinns 
that  were  under  Somhairle  the  Renegade 
drave  in  upon  our  ships  and  how  Haco 
laughed  no  more,  and  the  sea  was  red  with 
Lochlin  blood." 

"  She  was  a  woman,  Sweno — and  none  more 
fair  in  the  isles,  after  Morna  that  is  mine." 

"  Woman  or  no  woman  I  flung  her  into 
the  sea.  The  Gael  call  us  Gall:  then  I  will 
let  no  Gael  laugh  at  the  Gafl.  It  is  enough. 
She  is  drowned.  There  are  always  women  ; 
one  here,  one  there  —  it  is  but  a  wave  blown 
this  way  or  that." 

At  this  moment  a  viking  came  running 
across  the  ruined  town  with  tidings.  Mao- 
liosa  and  his  culdees  were  crowding  into  a 
great  birlinn.  Perhaps  they  were  coming  to 
give  battle ;  mayhap  they  were  for  safling 
away  from  that  place. 

292 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

Olaus  and  Sweno  stared  across  the  fjord. 
At  first  they  knew  not  what  to  think.  If 
MaoUosa  thought  of  battle  he  would  scarce 
choose  that  hour  and  place.  Or  was  it  that 
he  knew  the  Gael  were  coming  in  force, 
and  that  the  vikings  were  caught  in  a 
trap? 

At  last  it  was  clear.  Sweno  gave  a  great 
laugh. 

"  By  the  blood  of  Odin,"  he  cried,  "they 
come  to  sue  for  peace  !  " 

Slowly  across  the  loch  the  birlinn,  filled 
with  white-robed  Culdees,  drew  near.  At 
the  prow  stood  a  tall  old  man,  with  streaming 
hair  and  beard,  white  as  sea-foam.  In  his 
right  hand  he  grasped  a  great  Cross,  whereon 
was  Christ  crucified. 

The  vikings  drew  close  one  to  the  other. 

"  Hail  them  in  their  own  tongue,  Sweno," 
said  Olaus. 

The  Hammerer  moved  to  the  water-edge, 
as  the  birlinn  stopped,  a  short  arrow- flight 
away. 

"  Ho,  there,  priests  of  the  Christ-faith  !  " 

"What   would    you,    viking?"      It    was 
Maoliosa  himself  that  spoke. 
293 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

"Why  do  you  come  here  among  us,  you 
that  are  MaoHosa?" 

"  To  win  you  and  yours  to  God,  pagan." 

"  Is  it  madness  that  is  upon  you,  old  man  ? 
We  have  swords  and  spears  here,  if  we  lack 
h5rmDs  and  prayers." 

All  this  time  Olaus  kept  a  wary  watch 
inland  and  seaward,  for  he  feared  that 
Maoliosa  came  because  of  an  ambush. 

Truly  the  old  monk  was  mad.  He  had 
told  his  Culdees  that  God  would  prevail,  and 
that  the  pagans  would  melt  away  before  the 
Cross. 

The  ebb-tide  was  running  swift.  Even 
while  Sweno  spoke,  the  birlinn  touched  a 
low  sea-hidden  ledge  of  rock. 

A  cry  of  consternation  went  up  from  the 
white-robes.  Loud  laughter  came  from  the 
vikings. 

'*  Arrows  !  "  cried  Olaus. 

With  that  three  score  men  took  their 
bows.  There  was  a  hail  of  death-shafts. 
Many  fell  into  the  water,  but  some  were  in 
the  brains  and  hearts  of  the  Culdees. 

Maoliosa  himself  stood  in  death,  transfixed 
to  the  mast. 

294 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

With  a  wild  cry  the  monks  swept  their 
oars  backward.  Then  they  leaped  to  their 
feet  and  changed  their  place,  and  rowed  for 
life  or  death. 

The  summer-sailors  sprang  into  their  gal- 
ley. Sweno  the  Hammerer  was  at  the  bow. 
The  foam  curled  and  hissed. 

The  birlinn  grided  upon  the  opposite 
shore  at  the  selfsame  moment  when  Sweno 
brought  down  his  battle-axe  upon  the  monk 
who  steered.  The  man  was  cleft  to  the 
shoulder.  Sweno  swayed  with  the  blow, 
stumbled,  and  fell  headlong  into  the  sea. 
A  Culdee  thrust  at  him  with  an  oar,  and 
pinned  him  among  the  sea-tangle.  Thus 
died  Sweno  the  Hammerer. 

Then  all  the  white-robes  leaped  upon  the 
shore.  Yet  Olaus  was  quicker  than  they. 
With  a  score  of  vikings  he  raced  to  the 
Church  of  the  Cells,  and  gained  the  sanctu- 
ary. The  monks  uttered  a  cry  of  despair,  and, 
turning,  fled  across  the  moor.  Olaus  counted 
them.     There  were  now  forty  in  all. 

"  Let  forty  men  follow  "  he  cried. 

Like  white  birds,  the  monks  fled  this  way 
and  that.  Olaus  and  those  who  watched 
295 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

laughed  at  them  as  they  stumbled  because 
of  their  robes.  One  by  one  fell,  sword- 
cleft  or  spear- thrust.  The  moorland  was 
red. 

At  the  last  there  were  less  than  a  score  — 
twelve  only  —  ten  ! 

"Brmg  them  back  !  "  Olaus  shouted. 

When  the  ten  fugitives  were  captured  and 
brought  back,  Olaus  took  the  crucifix  that 
Maoliosa  had  raised,  and  held  it  before  each 
in  turn.  "  Smite,"  he  said  to  the  first  monk. 
But  the  man  would  not.  "  Smite  !  "  he  said 
to  the  second  :  but  he  would  not.  And  so 
it  was  to  the  tenth. 

"Good,"  said  Olaus  the  White:  "they 
shall  witness  to  their  god."  With  that  he 
bade  his  vikings  break  up  the  birlinn,  and 
drive  the  planks  into  the  ground,  and  shore 
them  up  with  logs. 

AVhen  this  was  done  he  crucified  each 
Culdee.  With  nails  and  with  ropes  he  did 
unto  each  what  their  god  had  suffered. 
Then  all  were  left  there,  by  the  water-side. 

That  night,  when  Olaus  the  White  and 
the  laughing  Moma  left  the  great  bonfire 
where  the  vikings  sang  and  drank  horn  after 
296 


The  Flight  of  the  Culdees 

horn  of  strong  ale,  they  stood  and  looked 
across  the  loch.  In  the  moonlight,  upon 
the  dim  verge  of  the  further  shore,  they 
could  discern  ten  crosses.  On  each  was  a 
motionless  white  splatch. 


297 


MIRCATH 


299 


The  Mire  Chath  was  the  name  given  to  the  war- 
frenzy  that  often  preceded  and  accompanied  battle. 


300 


MIRCATH 

WHEN  Haco  the  Laugher  saw  the 
islanders  coming  out  of  the  west  in 
their  birlinns,  he  called  to  his  vikings : 
"  Now  of  a  truth  we  shall  hear  the  Song  of 
the  Sword  !  " 

The  ten  galleys  of  the  Summer- Sailors 
spread  out  into  two  lines  of  five  boats,  each 
boat  an  arrow- flight  from  those  on  either 
side. 

The  birlinns  came  on  against  the  noon. 
In  the  sun-dazzle  they  loomed  black  as  a 
shoal  of  pollack.  There  were  fifteen  in  all, 
and  from  the  largest,  midway  among  them, 
flew  a  banner.  On  this  banner  was  a  disc 
of  gold. 

"It  is  the  Banner  of  the  Sunbeam," 
shouted  Olaf  the  Red,  who  with  Torquil  the 
One-Armed  was  hero-man  to  Haco.  "  I 
know  it  well.  The  Gael  who  fight  under 
that  are  warriors  indeed." 
301 


Mircath 

"  Is  there  a  saga-man  here  ?  "  cried  Haco. 
At  that  a  great  shout  went  up  from  the 
vikings  :  "  Harald  the  Smith  !  " 

A  man  rose  among  the  bow-men  in  Olaf  s 
boat.  It  was  Harald.  He  took  a  small 
square  harp,  and  he  struck  the  strings.  This 
was  the  song  he  sang: 

Let  loose  the  hounds  of  war, 

The  whirling  swords  I 
Send  them  leaping  afar, 
Red  in  their  thirst  for  war ; 
Odin  laughs  in  his  car 

At  the  screaming  of  the  swords  ! 

Far  let  the  white-ones  fiy, 

The  whirling  swords ! 
Afar  off  the  ravens  spy 
Death-shadows  cloud  the  sky. 
Let  the  wolves  of  the  Gael  die 

'Neath  the  screaming  swords  I 

The  Shining  Ones  yonder 

High  in  Valhalla 
Shout  now,  with  thunder. 
Drive  the  Gaels  tindery 
Cleave  them  asunder  — 

Swords  of  Valhalla  ! 

A  shiver  passed  over  every  viking.     Strong 
men  shook  as  a  child  when  lightning  plays. 
302 


Mircath 

Then  the  trembling  passed.  The  mircath, 
the  war-frenzy,  came  on  them.  Loud 
laughter,  went  from  boat  to  boat.  Many 
tossed  the  great  oars,  and  swung  them  down 
upon  the  sea,  splashing  the  sun- dazzle  into 
a  yeast  of  foam.  Others  sprang  up  and 
whirled  their  javelins  on  high,  catching  them 
with  bloody  mouths :  others  made  sword- 
play,  and  stammered  thick  words  through  a 
surf  of  froth  upon  their  lips.  Olaf  the  Red 
towered  high  on  the  steering-plank  of  the 
Calling  RaveUy  swirling  round  and  round  a 
mighty  battle-axe  :  on  the  Sea-  Wo  Iff  Torquil 
One-Arm  shaded  his  eyes,  and  screamed 
hoarsely  wild  words  that  no  one  knew  the 
meaning  of.  Only  Haco  was  still  for  a  time. 
Then  he,  too,  knew  the  mircath :  and  he 
stood  up  in  the  Red-Dragon  and  laughed 
loud  and  long.  And  when  Haco  the  Laugher 
laughed,  there  was  ever  blood  and  to  spare. 
The  birlinns  of  the  islanders  drave  on 
apace.  They  swayed  out  into  a  curve,  a 
black  crescent  there  in  the  gold-sprent  blue 
meads  of  the  sea.  From  the  great  birlinn 
that  carried  the  Sunbeam  came  a  chanting 
voice : 

303 


Mircath 

O  'tis  a  good  song  the  sea  makes  when  blood  is  on 

the  wave, 
And  a  good  song  the  wave  makes  when  its  crest  o' 

foam  is  red ! 
For  the  rovers  out  of  Lochlin  the  sea  is  a  good 

grave, 
And  the  bards  will  sing  to-night  to  the  sea-moan  of 
the  dead ! 

Yo-ho-a-h'eily-a-yo,  eily,  ayah,  a  yo  ! 
Sword  and   Spear  and  Battle-axe   sing  the 
Song  of  Woe, 

Ayah,  eily,  a  yo  I 
Eily,  ayah,  a  yo  I 


Then  there  was  a  swirling  and  dashing  of 
foam.  Clouds  of  spray  filled  the  air  from 
the  thresh  of  the  oars. 

No  man  knew  aught  of  the  last  moments 
ere  the  birlinns  bore  down  upon  the  viking- 
galleys.  Crash  and  roar  and  scream :  and  a 
wild  surging:  the  slashing  of  swords,  the 
whistle  of  arrows,  the  fierce  hiss  of  whirled 
spears,  the  rending  crash  of  battle-axe  and 
splintering  of  the  javelins,  wild  cries,  oaths, 
screams,  shouts  of  victors  and  yells  of  the 
dying,  shrill  taunts  from  the  spillers  of  life 
and  savage  choking  cries  from  those  drown- 
ing in  the  bloody  yeast,  that  bubbled  and 
304 


Mircath 

foamed  in  the  maelstrom  where  the  war- 
boats  swung  and  reeled  this  way  and  that  — 
and  over  all  the  loud  death-music  of  Haco 
the  Laugher. 

Olaf  the  Red  went  into  the  sea,  red 
indeed,  for  the  blood  streamed  from  head 
and  shoulders  and  fell  about  him  as  a  scarlet 
robe.  Torquil  One-Arm  fought,  blind  and 
arrow-sprent,  till  a  spear  went  through  his 
neck,  and  he  sank  among  the  dead.  Louder 
and  louder  grew  the  fierce  shouts  of  the 
Gael :  fewer  the  savage  screaming  cries  of 
the  vikings.  Thus  it  was  till  two  galleys 
only  held  living  men.  The  Calling  Raven 
turned  and  fled,  with  the  nine  men  who 
were  not  wounded  to  the  death.  But  on  the 
Red  Dragon  Haco  the  Laugher  still  laughed. 
Seven  men  were  about  him.  These  fought 
in  silence. 

Then  Toscar  mac  Aonghas  that  was  leader 
of  the  Gael  took  his  bow.  None  was  arrov/- 
better  than  Toscar  of  the  Nine  Battles.  He 
laid  down  his  sword  and  took  his  bow,  and 
an  arrow  went  through  the  right  eye  of  Haco 
the  Laugher.  He  laughed  no  more.  The 
seven   died    in   silence.     Swaran    Swift-foot 

20  305 


Mircath 

was  the  last.     When  he  fell  he  wiped  away 
the  blood  that  streamed  over  his  face. 

'' Skoal  r'  he  cried  to  the  hero  of  the 
Gael,  and  with  that  he  whirled  his  battle-axe 
at  Toscar  mac  Aonghas :  and  the  soul  of 
Toscar  met  his,  in  the  dark  mist,  and  upon 
the  ears  of  both  fell  at  one  and  the  same 
time  the  glad  laughter  of  the  gods  in 
Valhalla. 


306 


THE  LAUGHTER  OF  SCATHACH 
THE   QUEEN 


307 


Scathach  [pronounced  Scd-ya  or  Sk^-ya)  was  an 
Amazonian  queen  of  the  Isle  of  Skye,  and  is  supposed 
to  have  given  her  name  to  that  island. 


308 


THE  LAUGHTER  OF  SCATHACH 
THE  QUEEN 

IN  the  year  when  Cuchullin  left  the  Isle  of 
Skye,  where  Scathach  the  warrior- Queen 
ruled  with  the  shadow  of  death  in  the  palm 
of  her  sword-hand,  there  was  sorrow  because 
of  his  beauty.  He  had  fared  back  to  Eir^, 
at  the  summons  of  Concobar  mac  Nessa, 
Ard-Righ  of  Ulster.  For  the  Clan  of  the 
Red  Branch  was  wading  in  blood,  and  there 
were  seers  who  beheld  that  bitter  tide  rising 
and  spreading. 

Cuchullin  was  only  a  youth  in  years  :  but 
he  had  come  to  Skye  a  boy,  and  he  had  left 
it  a  man.  None  fairer  had  ever  been  seen 
of  Scathach  or  of  any  woman.  He  was  tall 
and  Uthe  as  a  young  pine  :  his  skin  was  as 
white  as  a  woman's  breast :  his  eyes  were  of 
a  fierce  bright  blue,  with  a  white  light  in 
them  as  of  the  sun.  When  bent,  and  with 
arrow  half-way  drawn,  he  stood  on  the 
heather,  listening  against  the  belling  of  the 

309 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

deer;  or  when  he  leaned  against  a  tree, 
dreaming  not  of  eagle-chase  or  wolf- hunt,  but 
of  the  woman  whom  he  had  never  met;  or 
when,  by  the  dun,  he  played  at  sword-whirl 
or  spear-thrust,  or  raced  the  war-chariot  across 
the  machar — then,  and  ever,  there  were  eyes 
upon  his  beauty  and  there  were  some  who 
held  him  to  be  Angus  Ogue  himself.  For 
there  was  a  light  about  him,  such  as  the  hills 
have  in  the  sun- glow  an  hour  before  set.  His 
hair  was  the  hair  of  Angus  and  of  the  fair 
gods :  earth-brown  shot  with  gold  next  his 
head,  ruddy  as  flame  midway,  and,  where  it 
sprayed  into  a  golden  mist  of  fire,  yellow 
as  windy  sunshine. 

But  Cuchullin  loved  no  woman  upon  Skye, 
and  none  dared  openly  to  love  Cuchullin,  for 
Scathach's  heart  yearned  for  him,  and  to 
cross  the  Queen  was  to  put  the  shroud  upon 
oneself  Scathach  kept  an  open  face  for 
the  son  of  Lerg.  There  was  no  dark  frown 
above  the  storm  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked 
at  his  sunbright  face.  Gladly  she  slew  a 
woman  because  Cuchullin  had  lightly  re- 
proved the  maid  for  some  idle  thing :  and 
once,  when  the  youth  had  looked  in  grave 
310 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

silence  at  three  viking-captives  whom  she 
had  spared  because  of  their  comely  man- 
hood, she  put  her  sword  through  the  heart 
of  each,  and  sent  him  the  blade,  dripping 
red,  as  the  flower  of  love. 

But  Cuchullin  was  a  dreamer,  and  he 
loved  what  he  dreamed  of,  and  that  woman 
was  not  Scathach,  nor  any  of  her  warrior- 
women  who  made  the  Isle  of  Mist  a  place  of 
terror  for  those  cast  upon  the  wild  shores,  or 
stranded  there  in  the  ebb  of  inglorious  battle. 

Scathach  brooded  deep  upon  her  vain 
desire.  Once,  in  a  windless  shadowy  gloam- 
ing, she  asked  him  if  he  loved  any  woman. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  Etiin." 

Her  breath  came  quick  and  hard.  It  was 
for  pleasure  to  her  then  to  think  of  Cuchullin 
lying  white  at  her  feet,  with  the  red  blood 
spilling  from  the  whiteness  of  his  breast. 
But  she  bit  her  underlip,  and  said  quietly : 

^<Who  is  Etain?" 

"  She  is  the  wife  of  Midir." 

And  with  that  the  youth  turned  and  moved 

haughtily  away.     She  did  not  know  that  the 

Etain  of  whom  Cuchullin  dreamed  was  no 

woman  that  he  had  seen  in  Eir^,   but  the 

311 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

wife  of  Midir  the  King  of  Faerie,  who  was  so 
passing  fair  that  Mac  Greine,  the  beautiful 
god,  had  made  for  her  a  grianan  all  of  shin- 
ing glass,  where  still  she  lives  in  a  dream, 
and  in  that  sun-bower  still  is  fed  at  dawn 
upon  the  bloom  of  flowers  and  at  dusk  upon 
their  fragrance.  O  ogham  mhic  Greine,  tha 
e  boidheach}  she  sighs  for  ever  in  her  sleep : 
and  that  sigh  is  in  all  sighs  of  love  for  ever 
and  ever. 

Scathach  watched  him  till  he  was  lost 
behind  the  flare  of  the  camp-fires  of  the  rath. 
For  long  she  stood  there,  brooding  deep; 
till  the  sickle  of  the  new  moon,  which  had 
been  like  a  blown  feather  over  the  sun  as  it 
sank,  stood  out  in  silvershine  against  the 
blue-black  sky,  now  like  a  wake  in  the  sea 
because  of  the  star-dazzle  that  was  there. 
And  what  the  queen  brooded  upon  was  this  : 
whether  to  send  emissaries  to  Eireann,  under 
bond  to  seek  in  that  land  till  they  found 
Midir  and  Etain,  and  to  slay  Midir  and 
bring  to  her  the  corpse,  for  a  gift  from  her 
to  lay  before  CuchuUin :  or  to  bring  Etain 

1  "  O  beauty  of  my  love  the  Sun-lord "    (///.  "  O 
Youth,  son  of  the  Sun,  how  fair  he  is ! " ) 
312 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

to  Skye,  where  the  Queen  might  see  her  lose 
her  beauty  and  wane  into  death.  Neither 
way  might  win  the  heart  of  CuchulHn.  The 
dark  tarn  of  the  woman's  mind  grew  blacker 
with  the  shadow  of  that  thought. 

Slowly  she  moved  dun-ward  through  the 
night.  "As  the  moon  sometimes  is  seen 
rising  out  of  the  east,"  she  muttered,  "  and 
sometimes,  as  now,  is  first  seen  in  the  west, 
so  is  the  heart  of  love.  And  if  I  go  west,  lo 
the  moon  may  rise  along  the  sunway :  and  if 
I  go  east,  lo  the  moon  may  be  a  white  light 
over  the  setting  sun.  And  who  that  knoweth 
the  heart  of  man  or  woman  can  tell  when  the 
moon  of  love  is  to  appear  full- orbed  in  the 
east  or  sickle-wise  in  the  west?  " 

It  was  on  the  day  following  that  tidings 
came  out  of  Eir^ann.  An  Ultonian  brought 
a  sword  to  Cuchullin  from  Concobar  the 
Ard-righ. 

"  The  sword  has  ill  upon  it,  and  will  die, 
unless  you  save  it,  Cuculain  son  of  Lerg," 
said  the  man. 

"And  what  is  that  ill,  Ultonian?  "  asked 
the  youth. 

"  It  is  thirst." 

313 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

Then  Cuchullin  understood. 

On  the  night  of  his  going  none  looked  at 
Scathach.     She  had  a  flame  in  her  eyes. 

At  moonrise,  she  came  back  into  the  rath. 
No  one,  meeting  her,  looked  in  her  face. 
Death  lay  there,  like  the  levin  behind  a 
cloud.  But  Maev  her  chief  captain  sought 
her,  for  she  had  glad  news. 

"  I  would  slay  you  for  that  glad  news, 
Maev,"  said  the  Dark  Queen  to  the  warrior- 
woman,  "  for  there  is  no  glad  news  unless  it 
be  that  Cuchullin  is  come  again :  only,  I 
spare,  for  you  saved  my  life  that  day  the 
summer-sailors  burned  my  rath  in  the  south." 

Nevertheless,  Scathach  had  gladness  be- 
cause of  the  tidings.  Three  viking-galleys 
had  been  driven  into  Loch  Scavaig,  and 
been  dashed  to  death  there  by  the  whirling 
wind  and  the  narrow  furious  seas.  Of  the 
ninety  men  who  had  sailed  in  them,  only  a 
score  had  reached  the  rocks  :  and  these  were 
now  lymg  bound  at  the  dun,  awaiting  death. 

"Call   out   my  warriors,"  said   Scathach, 
*'and   bid    all   meet   at   the   oak  near   the 
Ancient   Stones.      And    bring    thither    the 
twenty  men  that  lie  bound  in  the  dun." 
314 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

There  was  a  scattering  of  fire  and  a  clash- 
ing of  swords  and  spears,  when  the  word 
went  from  Maev.  Soon  all  were  at  the 
Stones  beneath  the  great  oak. 

"  Cut  the  bonds  from  the  feet  of  the  sea- 
rovers,  and  let  them  stand."  Thus  com- 
manded the  Queen. 

The  tall  fair  men  out  of  LochUn  stood, 
with  their  hands  bound  behind  them.  In 
their  eyes  burned  wrath  and  shame,  because 
that  they  were  the  sport  of  women.  A 
bitter  death  theirs,  with  no  sword-song  for 
music.  "  Take  each  by  his  long  yellow 
hair,"  said  Scathach,  "and  tie  the  hair 
of  each  to  a  down-caught  bough  of  the 
oak." 

In  silence  this  thing  was  done.  A  shadow 
was  in  the  paleness  of  each  viking-face, 

"  Let  the  boughs  go,"  said  Scathach. 

The  five  score  warrior-women  who  held 
the  great  boughs  dov/nward,  sprang  back. 
Up  swept  the  branches,  and  from  each  swung 
a  living  man,  swaying  in  the  wind  by  his  long 
yellow  hair. 

Great  men  they  were,  strong  warriors  :  but 
stronger  was  the  yellow  hair  of  each,  and 
315 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

stronger  than  the  hair  the  bough  wherefrom 
each  swung  and  stronger  than  the  boughs 
the  wind  that  swayed  them  idly  hke  droop- 
ing fruit,  with  the  stars  silvering  their  hair 
and  the  torch-flares  reddening  the  white 
soles  of  their  dancing  feet. 

Then  Scathach  the  Queen  laughed  loud 
and  long.  There  was  no  other  sound  at  all 
there,  for  none  ever  uttered  sound  when 
Scathach  laughed  that  laugh,  for  then  her 
madness  was  upon  her. 

But  at  the  last  Maev  strode  forward,  and 
struck  a  small  clarsach  that  she  carried,  and 
to  the  wild  notes  of  it  sang  the  death- song 
of  the  vikings. 

O  arone  a-ree,  eily  arone,  arone  ! 

*T  is  a  good  thing  to  be  sailing  across  the  sea  I 

How  the  women  smile  and  the  children  are  laughing 

glad 
When  the  galleys  go  out  into  the  blue  sea  —  arone ! 
O  eily  arone,  arone  I 

But  the  children  may  laugh  less  when  the  wolves 

come, 
And  the  women  may  smile  less  in  the  winter  — 

cold  — 
For  the  Summer-sailors  will  not  come  again,  arone  1 
O  arone  a-ree,  eily  arone,  arone  ! 
316 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

I  am  thinking  they  will  not  sail  back  again,  O  no  f 
The  yellow-haired  men  that  came  sailing  across  the 

sea: 
For  't  is  wild  apples  they  would  be,  and  swing  on 

green  branches, 
And  sway  in  the  wind  for  the  corbies  to  preen  their 

eyne, 

O  eily  arone,  eily  a-ree  I 

And  it  is  pleasure  for  Scathach  the  Queen  to  see 

this: 
To  see  the  good  fruit  that  grows  upon  the  Tree  of 

the  Stones. 
Long,  speckled  fruit  it  is,  wind-swayed  by  its  yellow 

roots, 
And  like  men  they  are  with  their  feet  dancing  in  the 

void  air  I 

O,  O,  arone,  aree,  eily  arone  I 

When  she  ceased,  all  there  swung  swords 
and  spears,  and  flung  flaring  torches  into  the 
night,  and  cried  out : 

O,  arone  a-ree,  eily  arone,  arone, 
O,  O,  arone,  a-ree,  eily  arone  I 

Scathach  laughed  no  more.  She  was  weary 
now.  Of  what  avail  any  joy  of  death  against 
the  pain  she  had  in  her  heart,  the  pain  that 
was  called  Cuchullin? 

Soon  all  was  dark  in  the  rath.  Flame 
317 


The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the  Queen 

after  flame  died  out.  Then  there  was  but 
one  red  glare  in  the  night,  the  watch-fire  by 
the  dun.  Deep  peace  was  upon  all.  Not  a 
heifer  lowed,  not  a  dog  bayed  against  the  moon. 
The  wind  fell  into  a  breath,  scarce  enough 
to  lift  the  fragrance  from  flower  to  flower. 
Upon  the  branches  of  a  great  oak  swung 
motionless  a  strange  fruit,  limp  and  gray  as 
the  hemlock  that  hangs  from  ancient  pines. 


318 


ULA    AND   URLA 


319 


Rose  of  all  Roses,  Rose  of  all  the  World  I 
You,  too,  have  come  where  the  dim  tides  are  hurled 
Upon  the  wharves  of  sorrow,  and  heard  ring 
The  bell  that  calls  us  on  :  the  sweet  far  thing. 
Beauty  grown  sad  with  its  eternity 
Made  you  of  us,  and  of  the  dim  gray  sea." 


320 


ULA   AND  URLA 

ULA  and  Urla  were  under  vow  to  meet 
by  the  Stone  of  Sorrow.  But  Ula, 
dying  first,  stumbled  blindfold  when  he 
passed  the  Shadowy  Gate  :  and,  till  Urla's 
hour  was  upon  her,  she  remembered  not. 

These  were  the  names  that  had  been 
given  to  them  in  the  north  isles,  when  the 
birlinn  that  ran  down  the  war-galley  of  the 
vikings  brought  them  before  the  Maormor. 

No  word  had  they  spoken  that  day,  and  no 
name.  They  were  of  the  Gael,  though  Ula's 
hair  was  yellow  and  though  his  eyes  were 
blue  as  the  heart  of  a  wave.  They  would 
ask  nothing,  for  both  were  in  love  with 
death.    The  Maormor  of  Siol  Tormaid  looked 

The  first  part  of  the  story  of  Ula  and  Urla,  as 
Isla  and  Eilidh,  is  told  in  *'  Silk  o'  the  Kine,"  at 
the  end  of  The  Sin-Eater.  [The  name,  Eilidh,  is 
pronounced  Eily  ( liq.)  or  Isle-ih.] 

21  321 


Ula  and  Urla 

at  Urla,  and  his  desire  gnawed  at  his  heart. 
But  he  knew  what  was  in  her  mind,  because 
he  saw  into  it  through  her  eyes,  and  he 
feared  the  sudden  slaying  in  the  dark. 

Nevertheless  he  brooded  night  and  day 
upon  her  beauty.  Her  skin  was  more  white 
than  the  foam  of  the  moon :  her  eyes  were 
as  a  starlit  dewy  dusk.  When  she  moved, 
he  saw  her  like  a  doe  in  the  fern :  when  she 
stooped,  it  was  as  the  fall  of  wind- swayed 
water.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  shimmer  as 
of  the  sunflood  in  a  calm  sea.  In  that 
dazzle  he  was  led  astray. 

"Go,"  he  said  to  Ula,  on  a  day  of  the 
days.  "  Go :  the  men  of  Siol  Torquil  will 
take  you  to  the  South  Isles,  and  so  you  can 
hale  to  your  own  place,  be  it  Eir^ann  or 
Manannan,  or  wherever  the  south  wind  puts 
its  hand  upon  your  home." 

It  was  on  that  day  Ula  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

"  I  will  go.  Coll  mac  Torcall :  but  I  go 
not  alone.     Urla  that  I  love  goes  whither  I 

go." 

"She    is    my   spoil.     But,    man    out    of 
Eir^ann  —  for  so  I  know  you  to  be,  because 
322 


Ula  and   Urla 

of  the  manner  of  your  speech  —  tell  me  this  : 
of  what  clan  and  what  place  are  you,  and 
whence  is  Urla  come  :  and  by  what  shore 
was  it  that  the  men  of  Lochlin  whom  we 
slew  took  you  and  her  out  of  the  sea,  as  you 
swam  against  the  sun,  with  waving  swords 
upon  the  strand  when  the  viking-boat  carried 
you  away?  " 

"How  know  you  these  things?"  asked 
Ula,  that  had  been  Isla,  son  of  the  king  of 
Islay. 

"  One  of  the  sea-rovers  spake  before  he 
died." 

"  Then  let  the  viking  speak  again.  I  have 
nought  to  say." 

With  that  the  jMaormor  frowned,  but  said 
no  more.  That  eve  Ula  was  seized,  as  he 
walked  in  the  dusk  by  the  sea,  singing  low 
to  himself  an  ancient  song. 

"Is  it  death?"  he  said,  remembering 
another  day  when  he  and  EiHdh,  that  they 
called  Urla,  had  the  same  asking  upon  their 
lips. 

"  It  is  death." 

Ula  frowned,  but  spake  no  word  for  a 
time.     Then  he  spake. 

323 


Ula  and   Uria 

"Let  me  say  one  word  with  Urla." 

"  No  word  canst  thou  have.  She  too 
must  die." 

Ula  laughed  low  at  that. 

"I  am  ready,"  he  said.  And  they  slew 
him  with  a  spear. 

When  they  told  Urla  she  rose  from  the 
deerskins  and  went  down  to  the  shore.  She 
said  no  word,  then.  But  she  stooped,  and 
she  put  her  hps  upon  his  cold  lips  :  and  she 
whispered  in  his  unhearing  ear. 

That  night  Coll  mac  Torcall  went  secretly 
to  where  Urla  was.  When  he  entered,  a 
groan  came  to  his  lips,  and  there  was  froth 
there  :  and  that  was  because  the  spear  that 
had  slain  Ula  was  thrust  betwixt  his  shoulders 
by  one  who  stood  in  the  shadow.  He  lay 
there  till  the  dawn.  When  they  found  Coll 
the  Maormor  he  was  like  a  seal  speared  upon 
a  rock,  for  he  had  his  hands  out,  and  his 
head  was  between  them,  and  his  face  was 
downward. 

"  Eat  dust,  slain  wolf,"  was  all  that  EiHdh 
whom  they  called  Urla  said  ere  she  moved 
away  from  that  place  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 

324 


Ula  and   Urla 

When  the  sun  rose,  Urla  was  in  a  glen 
among  the  hills.  A  man  who  shepherded 
there  took  her  to  his  mate.  They  gave  her 
milk,  and  because  of  her  beauty,  and  the 
frozen  silence  of  her  eyes,  bade  her  stay  with 
them,  and  be  at  peace. 

They  knew,  in  time,  that  she  wished  death. 
But,  first,  there  was  the  birthing  of  the  child. 

"  It  was  Isla's  will,"  she  said  to  the  woman. 
Ula  was  but  the  shadow  of  a  bird's  wing : 
an  idle  name.  And  she,  too,  was  Eilidh  once 
more.  *'  It  was  death  he  gave  you  when  he 
gave  you  the  child,"  said  the  woman  once. 

"It  was  life,"  answered  Eilidh,  with  her 
eyes  filled  with  the  shadow  of  dream.  And 
yet  another  day  the  woman  said  to  her  that 
it  would  be  well  to  bear  the  child  and  let  it 
die  :  for  beauty  was  like  sunlight  on  a  day 
of  clouds,  and  if  she  were  to  go  forth  young 
and  alone  and  so  wondrous  fair,  she  would 
have  love,  and  love  is  best. 

''Truly,  love  is  best,"  Eilidh  answered. 
"  And  because  Isla  loved  me,  I  would  that 
another  Isla  came  into  the  world,  and  sang 
his  songs  —  the  songs  that  were  so  sweet, 
and  the  songs  that  he  never  sang,  because  I 
325 


Ula  and   Urla 

gave  him  death  when  I  gave  him  life.  But 
now  he  shall  live  again  —  and  he  and  I  shall 
be  in  one  body,  in  him  that  I  carry  now." 

At  that  the  woman  understood,  and  said 
no  more.  And  so  the  days  grew  out  of  the 
nights,  and  the  dust  of  the  feet  of  one  month 
was  in  the  eyes  of  that  which  followed  after : 
and  this  until  Eilidh's  time  was  come. 

Dusk  after  dusk,  Ula  that  was  Isla  the 
Singer,  waited  by  the  Stone  of  Sorrow. 
Then  a  great  weariness  came  upon  him. 
He  made  a  song  there,  where  he  lay  in  the 
narrow  place  :  the  last  song  that  he  made, 
for  after  that  he  heard  no  trampling  of  the 
hours. 

The  swift  years  slip  and  slide  adown  the  steep  ; 

The  slow  years  pass ;  neither  will  come  again. 
Yon  huddled  years  have  weary  eyes  that  weep, 

These  laugh,  these  moan,  these  silent  frown,  these 
plain, 

These  have  their  lips  acurl  with  proud  disdain. 

O  years  with  tears,  and  tears  through  weary  years, 

How  weary  I  who  in  your  arms  have  lain : 
Now,  I  am  tired :  the  sound  of  slipping  spears 
Moves  soft,  and  tears  fall  in  a  bloody  rain, 
And  the  chill  footless  years  go  over  me  who  am 
slain. 

326 


I 


Ula  and  Uria 

I  hear,  as  in  a  wood,  dim  with  old  light,  the  rain, 
Slow  falling  ;  old,  old,  weary,  human  tears  : 

And  in  the  deepening  dark  my  comfort  is  my  Pain, 
Sole  comfort  left  of  all  my  hopes  and  fears, 
Pain   that  alone   survives,   gaunt   hound   of  the 
shadowy  years. 

But,  at  the  last,  after  many  days,  he  stirred. 
There  was  a  song  in  his  ears. 

He  listened.  It  was  like  soft  rain  in  a 
wood  in  June.  It  was  Uke  the  wind  laughing 
among  the  leaves. 

Then  his  heart  leapt.  Sure,  it  was  the 
voice  of  Eilidh  ! 

''Eilidh!  Eilidh!  Eilidh!'''  he  cried. 
But  a  great  weariness  came  upon  him  again. 
He  fell  asleep,  knowing  not  the  little  hand 
that  was  in  his  and  the  small  flower-sweet 
body  that  was  warm  against  his  side. 

Then  the  child  that  was  his  looked  into 
the  singer's  heart,  and  saw  there  a  mist  of 
rainbows,  and  midway  in  that  mist  was  the 
face  of  Eilidh  his  mother. 

Thereafter  the  little  one  looked  into  his 
brain  that  was  so  still,  and  he  saw  the  music 
that  was  there :  and  it  was  the  voice  of 
Eilidh  his  mother. 

327 


Ula  and   Urla 

And,  again,  the  birdeen,  that  had  the  blue 
of  Isla's  eyes  and  the  dream  of  EiUdh's, 
looked  into  Ula's  sleeping  soul :  and  he  saw- 
that  it  was  not  Isla  nor  yet  Eilidh,  but  that 
it  was  like  unto  himself,  who  was  made  of 
EiUdh  and  Isla. 

For  a  long  time  the  child  dreamed.  Then 
he  put  his  ear  to  Isla's  brow,  and  listened. 
Ah,  the  sweet  songs  that  he  heard.  Ah, 
bitter-sweet  moonseed  of  song !  Into  his 
life  they  passed,  echo  after  echo,  strain  after 
strain,  wild  air  after  wild  sweet  air. 

"  Isla  shall  never  die,"  whispered  the  child, 
"  for  Eilidh  loved  him.  And  I  am  Isla  and 
Eilidh." 

Then  the  little  one  put  his  hands  above 
Isla's  heart.  There  was  a  flame  there,  that 
the  Grave  quenched  not. 

"  O  flame  of  love  !  "  sighed  the  child,  and 
he  clasped  it  to  his  breast :  and  it  was  a 
moonshine  glory  about  the  two  hearts  that 
he  had,  the  heart  of  Isla  and  the  heart  of 
Eilidh,  that  were  thenceforth  one. 

At  dawn  he  was  no  longer  there.     Already 
the   sunrise  w^as   warm  upon   him  where  he 
lay,  newborn,  upon  the  breast  of  Eilidh. 
328 


Ula  and  Urla 

"  It  is  the  end,"  murmured  Isla  when  he 
waked.  "She  has  never  come.  For  sure 
now,  the  darkness  and  the  silence." 

Then  he  remembered  the  words  of  Maol 
the  Druid,  he  that  was  a  seer  and  had  told 
him  of  Orchil,  the  dim  goddess  who  is  under 
the  brown  earth,  in  a  vast  cavern,  where  she 
weaves  at  two  looms.  With  one  hand  she 
weaves  life  upward  through  the  grass  :  with 
the  other  she  weaves  death  downward  through 
the  mould  :  and  the  sound  of  the  weaving  is 
Eternity,  and  the  name  of  it  in  the  green 
world  is  Time.  And,  through  all,  Orchi 
weaves  the  weft  of  Eternal  Beauty,  tha?* 
passeth  not,  though  its  soul  is  Change. 

And  these  were  the  words  of  Orchil,  on 
the  lips  of  Maol  the  Druid,  that  was  old,  and 
knew  the  mystery  of  the  Grave  : 

Wheji  thou  joiirneyest  towards  the  Shad- 
owy Gate  take  neither  Fear  with  thee  nor 
Hope,  for  both  are  abashed  hounds  of  silence 
in  that  place  :  but  take  only  the  purple  night- 
shade for  sleeps  and  a  vial  of  tears  and  wine, 
tears    that  shall  be   known    unto    thee   and 


329 


Ula  and  Urla 

old  wine    of  love.     So  shall  thou  have   thy 
silent  festival y  ere  the  e?id. 

So  therewith  Isla,  having  in  his  weariness 
the  nightshade  of  sleep,  and  in  his  mind  the 
slow  dripping  rain  of  familiar  tears,  and 
deep  in  his  heart  the  old  wine  of  love,  bowed 
his  head. 

It  was  well  to  have  lived,  since  life  was 
EiUdh.  It  was  well  to  cease  to  live,  since 
Eilidh  came  no  more. 

Then  suddenly  he  raised  his  head.     There 
/as  music  in  the  green  world  above.     A  sun- 
.  ay  opened    the    earth    about  him :    staring 
upward  he  beheld  Angus  Ogue. 

"Ah,  fair  face  of  the  god  of  youth,"  he 
sighed.  Then  he  saw  the  white  birds  that 
fly  about  the  head  of  Angus  Ogue,  and  he 
heard  the  music  that  his  breath  made  upon 
the  harp  of  the  wind. 

"  Arise,"  said  Angus ;  and,  when  he  smiled, 
the  white  birds  flashed  their  wings  and  made 
a  mist  of  rainbows. 

"Arise,"    said   Angus   Ogue  again;    and, 
when   he   spoke,    the     spires   of  the    grass 
quivered  to  a  wild  sweet  haunting  air. 
330 


Ula  and  Urla 

So  Isla  arose,  and  the  sun  shone  upon  him, 
and  his  shadow  passed  into  the  earth.  Orchil 
wove  it  into  her  web  of  death. 

"  Why  dost  thou  wait  here  by  the  Stone  of 
Sorrow,  Isla  that  was  called  Ula  at  the  end?  " 

"I  wait  for  Eilidh,  who  cometh  not." 

At  that  the  wind-Hstening  god  stooped 
and  laid  his  head  upon  the  grass. 

''  I  hear  the  coming  of  a  woman's  feet," 
he  said,  and  he  rose. 

"  Eilidh  !  Eilidh  !  "  cried  Isla,  and  the 
sorrow  of  his  cry  was  a  moan  in  the  web  of 
Orchil. 

Angus  Ogue  took  a  branch,  and  put  the 
cool  greenness  against  his  cheek. 

"  I  hear  the  beating  of  a  heart,"  he  said. 

''  Eilidh  !  EiUdh  !  Eilidh  !  "  Isla  cried,  and 
the  tears  that  were  in  his  voice  were  turned 
by  Angus  into  dim  dews  of  remembrance  in 
the  babe-brain  that  was  the  brain  of  Isla  and 
Eilidh. 

*'  I  hear  a  word,"  said  Angus  Ogue,  "and 
that  word  is  a  flame  of  joy." 

Isla  Ustened.  He  heard  a  singing  of  birds. 
Then,  suddenly,  a  glory  came  into  the  shine 
of  the  sun. 

331 


Ula  and   Urla 

"  /  have  co7ne,  Isla  my  king  !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Eilidh.  He  bowed 
his  head,  and  swayed ;  for  it  was  his  own  hfe 
that  came  to  him. 

" Eilidh/'^  he  whispered. 

And  so,  at  the  last,  Isla  came  into  his 
kingdom. 

But  are  they  gone,  these  twain,  who  loved 
with  deathless  love?  Or  is  this  a  dream 
that  I  have  dreamed? 

Afar  in  an  island-sanctuary  that  I  shall  not 
see  again,  where  the  wind  chants  the  blind 
oblivious  rune  of  Time,  I  have  heard  the 
grasses  whisper :  Time  never  was^  Time  is 
not. 


332 


PRINTED    BY   JOHN    WILSON    AND    SON    AT 

THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS     IN     CAMBRIDGE 

DURING       JUNE       M   DCCC   XCVI.  FOR 

STONE   AND    KIMBALL 

NEW   YORK 


r 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  helow 


RfC'D 


'■'A.\ 


7 1990 

MAR  ,    5    ggi^r 


«^JO%f  IfM 


Form  L-G 
£Om-l,' 42(8519) 


LOS  aNGELBS 
LIBRARY 


PR 
5354 
y/27 
1896 


111'  II  III  iilil  ill  III  II 
L  006  Oil" 843  7 


BOSTON   BOOKHTNTI'KC  Cr«. 


